NINE

      

       “Okay, thanks for your help.” Jarvis clicked off the phone and then slapped his palms down on the table. He flung himself into the worn kitchen chair and bent his head into cupped hands. What did it take to get a break in the case?

Across the table, Wilson’s feet scuffed the floor. Jarvis looked up. “You look tired.”

Wilson grinned. “Haven’t slept in four nights. Not since Bennie went into labor Thursday at midnight. Had the baby Friday afternoon. Came home last night.”

Typical Ambrose Wilson. He’d play football with the other two sons all day, visit Bennie in the hospital and then work till he dropped.

“So, why do women wait till the middle of the night to go into labor?” Wilson asked.

“Because that’s when their men are home from work.” Jarvis counted on his fingers even though he had only one item on the list. “Here’s what we have. Sondergaard left Amsterdam via United Airlines. Destination Logan Airport in Boston. That was ten days ago, which matches with what we’ve got from the waitress who saw him and Bloom at the diner. And that was seven days before the theft.” Jarvis added more fingers. “Coupla questions based on what we know. One: if Sondergaard planned to visit Bloom in Alton Bay, why not fly into Manchester? Two: he’s keynoting a conference in Philly where John Bloom is also scheduled to appear. Why not wait and see him there?”

“Maybe he wanted to visit Boston. You know, see a Bruins game. Take a duck boat ride.”

“Duck boats don’t run this time of year.”

“Very funny,” Wilson chided. “Maybe Sondergaard didn’t plan on visiting Bloom until after the reservations were made.”

“Or, Bloom contacted him once he was in the US.”

“At least someone could find him.”

“Damn.” Jarvis got up and grabbed a box of 'Nilla Wafers from the top of the file cabinet. The wall clock said 7:22 a.m. He leaned against the counter and ate two. “The airline said Sondergaard arrived in Boston on Tuesday. Our next move is to trace his movements from the airport.” He handed Wilson his cell phone and a Massachusetts telephone book. “You check car rental agencies. See if anybody rented to a pink skinned man with a Danish accent.”

“You think he would’ve used his own name?”

“No reason he shouldn’t. At least not till he got to Alton Bay.” Jarvis picked up the cordless phone. “I’ll check hotels. His flight arrived at 11 p.m. Chances are he spent at least one night in Boston.”

“Isn’t there a Hilton right beside the terminal?”

“Yup. First place I’m checking.”

Two hours and a pot of coffee later, both men set down their phones.

“Damn,” Jarvis said, “all we’ve got is that Sondergaard spent one night at the Hilton. He didn’t rent a car, buy a bus ticket or hire a cab, that we know of.”

“Not under his regular name. Hey,” Wilson added, “what if I go to Boston and flash the guy’s picture around? That’s got to do more to jog memories than over the phone.”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t we set the Boston PD on it? After you leave here, stop at the station and fax ’em Sondergaard’s information. Then call and make sure somebody’s on this.” Jarvis scribbled a name on a sticky note and stuck it on Wilson’s sleeve. “Speak to this man. We went to the academy together. Besides, he’s bucking for promotion.”

Jarvis stood up and opened the refrigerator. He ducked inside. “I was so sure Sondergaard drove that dark SUV the neighbor spotted on Bloom’s street that night.”

“What did you say?”

He repeated what he said as he pulled out bins looking for something to eat. He spotted a green plastic bowl. Couldn’t remember what was in it. “You’d think Sondergaard would have a cell.”

Wilson fumbled in his shirt pocket and came out with a folded slip of paper. “I got it from the Danish police. I’ve called about a hundred times but nobody’s answering.” He dialed the number.

Jarvis let go of the refrigerator door and set the bowl on the counter. He opened the container, sniffed the contents and flinched back.

Wilson laughed, then clicked off the phone. “No answer.”

Jarvis heaved the bowl in the sink and Wilson laughed again. Jarvis scowled at him and went back to the fridge. This time he found eggs and a hunk of cheese without too much green. He made omelets while Wilson read from one of the folders of information.

“Donna Marks was born in the area, Ossipee, to be exact. Attended Ossipee area schools, graduated in ’79. Married Paul Zimmerman in ’84, she was twenty-two. They bought the florist shop fourteen years ago. Tax records show it was a long road, but the place is finally making money. She and Paul divorced last fall. She’s been attending a lot of conferences. Most recently April in Albuquerque. She spent a lot over the last four years buying irises from around the world, mostly from two places in Oregon: one called Cooleys the other, Shreiners.”

Jarvis punched down the lever on the toaster. “That is the second time Oregon has been mentioned.”

“What’s your point?”

“Trynne McCoy is from Oregon.”

“Think there’s a connection?”

“Dunno. Question: does Donna Marks have any genetic background or education?”

“Far as I can see there’s nothing beyond high school.”

Jarvis set a plate in front of Wilson who went to work spreading grape jelly on a slice of toast. The toaster popped up and Jarvis slathered butter on the dark slices of wheat bread.

Wilson’s cell rang. He listened several moments, making notes on the back of a file folder. Then he hung up and took a bite of omelet. He wadded the food in his left cheek, pointed the empty fork at Jarvis, and said, “John’s three million has been traced to a trust account in a London bank.”

“Lemme guess, there’s a mile long paper trail they’re trying to unravel.”

“Whoever is at the heart of this did a lot of planning.”

They ate in silence. Jarvis played with scenarios in his mind. None would gel into anything worth discussing with Wilson. Afterward, he instigated Wilson’s help moving the red leather chair from the living room to the garage.

Wilson flopped in the chair, breathing hard. “Why you getting rid of this? It’s nice.”

“I…need change.”

As if with sudden understanding, Wilson nodded. “You want me to take it?”

Jarvis thought a moment. Yes, Liz would want them to have it. He nodded.

“Okay,” Wilson said, hefting himself from the cushion. “I’ll come back with my pickup.”

“After you get some sleep.”

“Can’t…I have to take the boys to their karate class.”

“Why don’t you get a couple hours shut-eye? I’ll take them for you.”

“Thanks, but I’d like to do it.”

“Wouldn’t due to fall asleep on the road.”

“It’s not that far. I’ll be fine.”

They shook hands. As Wilson folded his lanky frame into his wife’s station wagon, Jarvis said, “Hey, see if you can get a number for Sondergaard’s wife.”

He remained standing with his hands in his pockets a few minutes. Then he went in the house and carried the barbells from the cellar to the spot where Liz’s chair had stood. Outside the window, a neighbor walked by leading a small dog who obviously hated getting his feet wet. The little animal alternated between tiptoeing and hopping with one foot off the ground.

The barbells glared at Jarvis as if daring him to pick them up. He did and, after several minutes, his limbs and lungs achieved a rhythm. He thought about Angelina, and the decision made yesterday—to invite her on a trip. So they could get better acquainted. So he could show her the man he really was.

Lifting felt like it had in the old days. Though every part of him burned with the exertion, he felt fantastic.

Yes, a trip would be just the remedy, for their lives and their relationship. Not to Boston as he first thought. Not when the case was over. They’d go to Philadelphia, the site of this weekend’s iris society conference. Sondergaard would be there.

Jarvis stopped to catch his breath. Damn. How could he have gotten so out of shape? The barbell thumped to the floor. Head down, palms flat on his thighs, he pulled in a labored breath. Sooner or later exercising would feel good again.

Most important, sexual stamina would return. He hoped.

Jarvis inhaled and lifted the barbells. In the old days, exercising grew rote. Barbell up. Barbell down. A mindless activity that allowed his brain to sort out problems.

But the case’s problems were multiplying like rabbits. He pushed them away for a glorious five minutes of hot shower. Then he dressed and made a sandwich from past the sell-by date ham. While wolfing it down, he called Manchester airport and bought two tickets for Thursday afternoon. Then he drove to the theater to tell Angelina the news.

* * * *

 

Angie, Tyson and Trynne stood at the base of a very soggy Mount Major. Melted snow raced downhill in small paths following no rhyme nor reason. Angie hefted her bag on both shoulders.

A well-trod hiking trail, once an old logging road, wound ahead for about a dozen feet, then disappeared between the trees. She gestured for Trynne to lead the way. Trynne carried a walking stick, a lopsided length of oak that Blake had carved and varnished at least ten years ago. She carried a backpack with water, cell phone and first aid kit. Tyson followed and then Angie, her pack loaded with veggie sticks and finger foods.

“How’s the investigation going?” Trynne called over her shoulder.

Angie kept her eyes glued to the slippery trail for roots or downed limbs. The sun was bright but the brisk breeze countermanded its warmth. “Slow. Where’s Blake today?”

“At his office. He’s trying to find another wholesaler.”

“Another wholesaler?” Tyson asked from ten feet behind.

“Oh, you probably didn’t know. John Bloom supplied the shrubs and plants for Blake’s company.”

Trynne stopped and waited for Angie and Tyson to catch up. “Isn’t it beautiful here?”

Below, the grey of the bare hardwoods glimmered stark against a backdrop of dark green pines and cedars. Mountains stretched as far as the eye could see. The ski slopes on the distant Presidential Range looked spiderwebs. As they stood, the mournful hoot of a bear echoed across the valley. Angie waited but no answering call came.

Trynne turned from the late winter vista and pushed her hands deep in her pockets. “What a waste of human life, but also a gifted scientist.”

Nobody had to ask what she meant. Tears stinging her eyes, Angie started walking again.

“There’s a fork, which way should we go?” Tyson asked.

“Left,” answered Trynne. “In about a half mile there’s a plateau overlooking the lake.”

They hiked the rest of the way in silence, their boots making slapping sounds on the wet ground. The plateau, an area about thirty feet across, did indeed look out over the lake, and the surrounding valley. The mountains lay in tiers before them as though placed by some enormous hand.

“No matter how many times I see this….” Angie said, not bothering to finish her thought.

“I love the way the air smells,” Trynne said.

“Like pine and cedar and—” Angie groped for the word she wanted, but Tyson said it simply.

“Cold.” He took a sheet of plastic from his pack and spread it on the ground. They sat. Tyson poured soup into Styrofoam cups.

Trynne spoke as she opened bags of veggie sticks. “Jarvis said you called the iris society.”

“Yes,” Angie replied. “If I were the thief, I’d be anxious to register it—to let the powers that be know about my new creation.”

“John didn’t do that?” Tyson asked.

“Apparently not. The iris society president said something I hadn’t thought of: John, or even the thief, could register the flower as dark rose or some other color. The fact that it is red is all that’s important in the end. The important thing is the registration.”

Trynne waved a stick of celery as she spoke. “And that it reproduces.”

“That goes without saying. She also said a good scientist would back up his data off-site.”

“What’s off-site?” Tyson asked.

“On CDs or something he can store off the property,” Trynne said. “I keep mine in a safe deposit box at the bank.”

Tyson used a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Does anybody know for sure whether John backed up the data?”

“No.”

No self-respecting scientist would not keep records. It just wasn’t done. Angie wondered if John emailed the information to Sondergaard and he did the backing up. She considered mentioning Pedar Sondergaard, to see if Trynne knew of him in the genetic world, but if Jarvis hadn’t said anything yet maybe he didn’t want the name to be public knowledge.

“If developing the red is such a big deal,” Tyson said, “I mean, I don’t know much about genetics, but wouldn’t something like the discovery of the red benefit the whole genetic world?”

Trynne dumped the last of her soup on the ground then dropped the cup into a paper bag with the rest of the trash. “Absolutely. It could open doors in a hundred other fields. The new color possibilities could be amazing.”

“Did you and John ever talk about this?”

Trynne shook her head. “No. At least not in specific terms. We talked about how nice it would be if it happened, but I didn’t have the idea John was any closer than I was with my ovine work.”

“Donna said there are several ways to propagate irises.”

“There are the normal ways via seeds or pollen,” Trynne said, “which is pretty much grade-school biology. You snip off the tip of the anther and stick it in—”

“Anther?” Tyson asked, standing and settling his cap tighter to his head.

“The anther is the filament in the middle of the flower. All flowers have them. They hold the pollen.”

“Then this pollen is used to breed with other flowers?”

“Right. But then there’s genetic splicing. The process is being used more and more often. I’m using genetic splicing for Monsanto.”

“What the hell’s genetic splicing?” Tyson asked.

Trynne stood up and brushed off the back of her jeans. “It’s combining the genetic material, the DNA. The process allows us to identify specific genes, remove and clone them to be used in another part of the same organism, or in this case, an entirely different one. It makes the genetic material capable of performing new functions.”

Angie made a scoffing sound. “Technology.”

“The process is far from new. The technique became possible during the fifties when Francis—”

“You’re getting too technical now,” Angie said.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Come on, let’s get started back.”

“I’m sorry,” Tyson said, “but the whole genetic thing feels wrong to me.”

“In what way?” Trynne asked.

“No offense Trynne, I know it’s your life work and all that, but messing with animals’ insides is just wrong.”

“What’s wrong with making things different colors?”

“What’s wrong with being happy with the way things are?”

Trynne zipped her pack and slung the wide straps over her shoulders. “I thought hiking up here would help get my mind off all this—”

“You brought it up.”

Angie’s cell phone rang. She almost laughed at the irony of being saved by the bell, dug it from her pack by the fifth ring and checked the caller ID. “Hi Jarvis.”

“Where are you?”

“On top of Mount Major, where else?” She grinned. “Where are you?”

“At the theater. I came here to see you.”

“It’s Monday, we took some time off.”

“Who’s we?”

“Trynne and Tyson. Hold on a second.” She held the phone to take a picture of the three of them and the surroundings.

Jarvis remained silent for several seconds. Angie wondered if one of two things was happening: the picture hadn’t arrived or his jealousy had kicked up its ugly head again. Finally he said, “Nice view. When are you coming back?”

His voice sounded tight. “What’s wrong?” she asked, knowing.

“Nothing.”

“We should be back within the hour. Are you sure everything’s all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Angie shut the phone and put it away.

“Anything wrong?” asked Trynne.

“He says no. But he sounded tense.” She shrugged. “He’s probably just tired.”

“Haven’t you checked out his sleeping habits firsthand yet?”

“She has,” Tyson said with a grin.

Angie turned a questioning gaze on him and he smiled wider. “You rattled the door.”

“No.”

“Well then, we were having an earthquake.”

She stood and stretched, bending forward and back, and then side to side. She lifted two edges of the plastic sheet and shook off the dirt and leaves. Trynne helped fold it and slip it into the pack.

“I just had a thought,” Tyson said. “What if John trashed his own place?”

“Why would he do that?” Trynne’s tone suggested it was sacrilege to suggest such things.

“What if he couldn’t produce the flower? What if he ran out of money? What if all those years, while dedicating himself to one flower, he let everything else go, realized his life had gone by, he had no family, no friends.”

“You think he used the play as an alibi?” Angie asked.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Trynne protested.

Tyson kept on, undaunted. “You both said he hardly ever left his property. But in spite of that, he agreed to be in the play.”

“He wouldn’t—” Trynne said again but Angie interrupted.

“He’s got a point. You said you and Blake got together with John either at your house or a restaurant. The night of the play, he specifically invited five people to his place.”

Trynne stumbled and almost fell back to the ground. “John wouldn’t—Angie, he was a reputable businessman. He was my friend.”

A morning breeze blew up from the valley raising goose bumps on Angie’s neck. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the wind at all. She zipped the parka a little tighter to her chin.

Trynne did likewise but stopped mid-zip. “There’s something you’re both forgetting. It’s fine and dandy to think John staged the whole theft thing—maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. But he sure as heck didn’t shoot himself.”

“No,” Angie had to agree.

“Trynne,” Tyson said, “you might want to cover your ears but, isn’t there the remotest chance John committed suicide?”

“What!” Trynne’s voice echoed across the valley. They all stood listening as time after time her shocked word ricocheted back at them.

“You’re thinking he substituted Jarvis’s real gun for the prop gun,” Angie offered.

The trio started walking, retracing their steps downhill in complete silence. Tyson’s idea had merit. John arrived late to the last dress rehearsal. He had as much opportunity as anyone else to have gone to Jarvis’s house and switched the guns. But the hypothesis didn’t feel right. John wasn’t the dramatic type. He wasn’t one to kill himself in front of an auditorium full of people. He’d be more likely to do it in the privacy of his laboratory: the place that betrayed all his dreams.

They arrived back in the parking area. Angie’s calves were stiff from the downhill trek. Tyson’s breath came in short bursts. When he saw Angie looking at him he chuckled. “Really out of shape.”

Trynne patted her backside. “Same here. We should do this more often.”

Angie didn’t think that Tyson, after Trynne’s reaction to his theories, would be too apt to want her along next time.

He dropped Angie at her condo. The odors of last night’s dinner were stale in the air. She lit a candle, took a shower and dressed, then made a call, to the US patent office. The woman who finally came on the line sounded winded, her voice raspy, as though she had either run a great distance to answer the phone, or was a heavy smoker. It took quite some time to explain the situation. Angie asked if anyone had applied for a patent for the process of developing a red iris.

The woman laughed. “An iris? You mean a flower?”

“Yes. A red bearded iris. A man in Alton Bay, who’s dedicated most of his life to developing one, has been murdered. His greenhouse and laboratory were ransacked. We think they wanted to steal his life’s work.”

“You from the cops?”

“Indirectly.”

“What’s that mean?”

Angie didn’t want to lie but didn’t want to sacrifice a chance for a clue. “It means that I work closely with them, but I’m not one officially.”

“Oh, you’re like a detective.” Angie didn’t reply. The woman went on, “What a shame about the guy dying. Not sure what I can do to help though.”

“I need to know if the thief has registered the process yet. Or, better yet, if I can find out that Mr. Bloom actually had time to register it himself.

Angie heard typing in the background and hoped it meant the woman was helping and not calling the crackpot line direct to the FBI.

“There’s nothing in the system to do with irises. At least not for several years. The last one I have here is a long-stemmed variety with purple flowers. Hold on while I keep looking.” A minute and several more clicks on the keyboard and she returned. Her hoarse voice turned rife with excitement. “I found a red!”

Angie sat up straighter in her chair.

The next time the woman spoke, she sounded deflated. “This can’t be the one. This is dated ten years ago.”

“Was the developer a man named Pedar Sondergaard?”

“Why yes. Wait—why didn’t I think of this earlier? I have a stack about a mile high of applications waiting to be entered into the computer.” There was a squeak, as though she’d shoved back her chair. “Hold on. I’ll put you on hold while I look.” Next came a giant sigh. “God, I didn’t realize how many there were. Why don’t I take your number and call you if I find something.”

Angie didn’t want to hang up. Once untethered to the phone, few people actually returned calls. In spite of her reservations, Angie gave the woman her number then took the woman’s name. “I appreciate the trouble you’re taking, Tory. I hope I’ll hear from you soon.”

“Okay. I’ll call. I promise. You have me really curious about all this. Talk to you in a few.”

“Bye.”

“Wait!” Tory called. Angie froze. “I think I found it. No, this can’t be the right one. This application is dated January 15th. Sorry to get your hopes up.” Silence on the line. Then, “It must be the wrong one, the name on the application is a…wait a second while I figure out how to pronounce this. You wouldn’t believe some of the screwball names people have. Like this one, the name is Jan…that’s easy enough. But the last name is Van…Blozend… not sure how to pronounce it. I’ll spell it, B-L-O-E-M.”

“Did you say the date was January 15th?” Angie asked.

“Right. When did you say this guy died?”

“Friday night.”

“Then this couldn’t be his flower cuz this is almost March. Not if they applied for the patent three months before his death…”

“Was the flower named Rhapsody, by any chance?”

“They name the things?”

“Yes. Just like when you register dogs or cats.”

“Hold on while I look for it. There isn’t a place specifically for naming things…Yes, it’s called Rhapsody in Scarlet. What a pretty name.”

“Can you spell the guy’s name for me, please?”

“Why don’t I just fax this to you.”

“If it’s not violating any rules.”

“Patents are public information. Besides, if this guy stole that flower and murdered your guy, this thing will probably never go through.”

Angie gave Tory the only fax number she knew, the one at the police station, thanked the woman and hung up.

So, the development process for Rhapsody in Scarlet was applied for three months before John’s death. Three months ago. What the hell? It was possible someone stole it and John had spent the last three months trying to get it back. Without calling in the authorities? Without at least notifying the Iris Society? They were the quintessential group for anyone involved with irises.

A third party could be involved, this Jan Van whatever. Jan and Sondergaard put up the money and John did the actual work. That made sense.

Angie dialed Jarvis’s number. Jarvis said hi then they both spoke at the same time, “I have news.” They laughed and Jarvis said he’d pick up a pizza and be right over.

While she waited, Angie Googled Jan Van Blozend Bloem. She found iris articles, all related in one way or another to the pursuit of the red. Apparently he led the quest. She did a search for true red iris. On the web site of a breeder from Virginia she learned that not only were iris breeders having a difficult time producing a red, rose breeders faced equal challenges developing a blue.

The doorbell rang. She pulled open the door with a welcome Jarvis pucker to her lips, but it was Bud Dodge. His grin of understanding made Angie laugh and her face burn. “Mom’s not here but come in anyway.”

He stepped in and shut the door against the chill wind off the bay. “I’m not looking for Gloria.”

“Where is she, by the way?”

“Shopping down in Concord.”

“But she doesn’t have a car.”

“I offered to let her take my Escalade but she said it was too big. I called her a cab.”

Angie didn’t want to think of the cost of a cab ride to and from Alton Bay. No matter. Gloria could afford it. Angie took Bud’s coat: cashmere. Somehow she resisted the temptation to bury her cheek in its soft folds. She hung the garment in the closet.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, I was just doing some research.”

“On the Bloom case?”

“Sit down, won’t you? Yes, the Bloom case. I’m really worried they’re going to somehow blame Jarvis.”

“So am I. That’s why I’m here.” Bud lowered himself in the center of the sofa. He clenched gnarled fingers in his lap and leaned forward. The man’s watery blue eyes were bright today. “I want to help.”

“Help?” she asked, sitting in her usual chair.

“Yes, give me some investigating to do.”

Angie laughed. “All I do is follow hunches. Sometimes they pan out.”

“I heard they frequently pan out for you. Give me a hunch to follow. You’re busy with the theater. I have all kinds of time.”

“All right, when Jarvis gets here, we’ll talk about it.”

Bud became occupied with twisting a big onyx ring on his left ring finger. What was it he didn’t want to tell her? Finally he said, “Jarvis is being overly protective.”

“He told you to…enjoy your retirement.”

Bud’s smile revealed lots of teeth. Angie would bet money they were still his own.

“So, you came to me thinking I’d aid you in doing something behind your son’s back?”

“Not quite so blatant, but, yes.”

“Did you have the nickname Bud for a long time?”

He thought a moment. “My father gave it to me because I was a small child. Rena never called me by it though. She liked the name Carson.” His eyes flickered toward the door. “So, give me a job.”

What sort of job could she give that wouldn’t be dangerous? That would satisfy Bud’s yen, but wouldn’t put her in a bad light with Jarvis. “How about this? Would you drive around to the car dealers and get brochures on hatchbacks?” She told about John’s neighbor’s identification of the nighttime visitors.

“What’ll you do with the brochures?”

“I’ll go to the neighbor to see if he can identify them.”

“Great idea.” He leaned forward. She reached out to help him rise, but he got up on his own. “I’ll be leaving before Jarvis arrives. Wouldn’t want to spoil your evening.”

“You couldn’t spoil anything.” Angie followed him to the hallway and retrieved his coat. “I’m glad you and Jarvis were able to get back together.” She held the coat while he slipped his arms into the sleeves.

He turned and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m glad too. I’m especially glad he has you. He’s wallowed in Elizabeth’s death for far too long.”

Angie had just enough time to fix her makeup before Jarvis punched the doorbell. He planted a kiss on her left temple and nudged the door shut with his hip. In the kitchen Angie poured chardonnay for herself and popped a beer for him. He flipped open the box and separated the slices of pepperoni pizza. The air filled with the luscious aroma. She sat and threw the pizza a disdainful glance.

“I thought you liked pizza,” Jarvis said, sliding slices onto two plates.

“It doesn’t like my hips.”

“I like your hips.” He held a slice with both hands, ready to take a bite. Instead, he said, “Sometimes I can’t tell how you feel about me though.”

“I like your hips.”

“That’s all?”

She avoided his gaze. She’d known this discussion would come up eventually. He took her plate and set it on the counter. “I care for you very much.” She opened her mouth to say she cared for him too, but he put a finger to her lips. “I’m tired of being alone. And I’m tired of dating. I want a long-term relationship. Maybe marriage…someday.” He shook his head as though discarding things to say. “The break with Will wrecked you, I know that. In a way that’s a good thing. If you’d left that relationship without a backward glance, I’d be thinking twice about us. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, you’re saying the fact that I suffered makes you happy.”

He squeezed her hand. “It makes me glad you’re a sensitive and caring person.” A warm glow pulsed up her arm and into her heart. “I just wanted you to know how I felt.”

Which was how? A cop experienced at interviews with reporters—almost like a politician. Saying a lot, but saying little. Angie stifled a grin and squeezed his hand. “I learned some things today.”

Angie told what Trynne had said about the methods of breeding irises. “She says it’s easy to steal pollen to propagate new varieties: go into the competitor’s greenhouse with a little container. It doesn’t have to be any bigger than this.” She tapped a fingernail on a paper packet of salt that came with the pizza.

“Marvelous way to change the subject.”

Angie sighed. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I can’t think about a permanent future.”

He kissed her cheek. “I understand. Sorry I brought it up.”

“I’m glad you did.” Then she palmed the salt packet again. “It’s easy to hide in your hand. All you do is pluck off the tip of the anther and stick it in—”

“Anther?” Jarvis unfolded a napkin and wiped his mouth, taking particular care around his mustache.

“That’s the filament in the middle of all flowers. They’re what hold the pollen.”

“This pollen is used to breed with other flowers?”

“Right.”

He shook his head, as if it was more than he could comprehend. “Let me guess, there’s more.”

“There might be another person involved.” Angie told him about the call to the patent office.

He got up and went to the sink, speaking over the sound of running water as he washed his hands. “Okay, so you think Bloom,  Sondergaard and this Van Whatever were partners?”

“I think it’s a possibility.”

He grabbed the towel hanging on the oven door. “Something went wrong with this partnership and Sondergaard and Van Whatever got together and ripped off Bloom.”

“It’s possible.”

“Yeah, but why kill him?”

“I haven’t worked that out yet.”

Jarvis sat back on the stool. “By the way, John’s journal wasn’t in his Jeep.”

“Damn. I thought…”

“The car had been jimmied. Very expertly. Nothing seemed missing. The CD player was intact. Coins in one of the cup holders. I figure the journal was there.”

“That’s why they broke in. I bet they did it the same time they switched guns.”

He nodded, somber, and took another beer from the refrigerator. Angie refilled her wine. They carried the drinks to the living room and sat on the sofa. He crossed one leg over the other and put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into the crook of his arm. He brushed her hair with his lips. They tilted their heads together. They interlaced fingers; he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

“Tyson had an interesting theory this morning,” she said without looking up. “He wondered, what if John trashed his own place, and then invited us all to there so he could discover it.”

Jarvis didn’t speak.

“Tyson also wondered if John committed suicide.”

After a long silence, Jarvis said, “I can’t accept suicide.”

“Neither could Trynne. She got pretty upset with Tyson for mentioning it. Had you ever met John before the play?”

“No. There’s no record of Bloom prior to when he appeared in Alton Bay. No income tax records, social security, school. Nothing. Neither can we find any record of his birth. Wilson’s working on the idea that Bloom might be an alias.”

That agreed with what Angie had emailed to Mary Grayson yesterday. Angie repeated the conversation to Jarvis. “I haven’t heard back from her yet. One more thing: did you know John’s nursery was the wholesale supplier to Blake McCoy’s landscaping company?”

“No. That’s interesting though. I talked to Blake this morning and he didn’t mention anything about it.”

Angie raised her head and kissed the left side of Jarvis’s jaw. He smelled of Ivory soap. His stubble chafed her lips. A spark of static electricity clicked between them making them both laugh.

“Have I told you how much I enjoy your company?” he asked.

“Not today.”

He removed his arm from her shoulder and backed a little to look in her face. “I—god, I’m awful with this kind of thing.”

“You did pretty good in the kitchen.”

“We’ve been seeing each other for almost nine months. Our relationship is good, but…I’d like it to move faster. Don’t say anything, I know my jealousy has kept things on hold. I suspect that’s the real reason you can’t commit. Anyway, I want you to know I’m working on it. For the last six months I’ve been in counseling.”

Counseling? He must really be serious about her.

“It’s an online group. Hey, funny thing. My father went to counseling too.” Jarvis shrugged. “Guess it runs in the family.”

Suddenly he gazed at something over her right shoulder. When people couldn’t meet your gaze didn’t it mean they were lying? No, Jarvis wasn’t lying; he was embarrassed. But desperate enough about their relationship that he had to open up. A rush of emotion pushed into her limbs and she squeezed his hand.

“I tried to see a psychiatrist. I—” He shrugged. “Made two appointments. But I couldn’t make myself go into the office. I tried the group and…I think it’s working. I care for you so much. Someday I’d like…Someday maybe we can…Damn. I can’t make the words come out right.” He sucked in a breath and said, fast, “I want our relationship to lead to marriage.”

Marriage?

“Once your divorce is final. And I can rid myself of this jealousy thing.”

Marriage?

He dropped his foot to the floor and shifted on the cushion. The kiss was slow, the hands gentle, the touch sure. Angie let herself be carried to someplace far away, where desire swirled like tidal pools and passion soared like eagles.