EIGHTEEN

      

       Angie moped down the hallway leaving Gloria and Jarvis outside Bud’s room. Damn, things just weren’t going well at all.

Why had he wanted her to get the briefcase? Because he wanted his son and Gloria nearby? Because she drove faster? More likely something in the case that only she could, or should, see. Gloria was too emotional. On suspension or not, Jarvis was still a cop.

Gloria was surprisingly calm. Granted, she and Bud hadn’t had much time together, but they’d made the most of every minute. Knowing he was dying wouldn’t ease the sense of loss for her over-emotional mother. While Jarvis completed the paperwork, Angie went in to see Bud for the last time. He lay on the narrow bed, hands folded atop the white sheet. The blue veins stood out starkly on the aged flesh. His hair had been smoothed down, the tubes and monitors disconnected. The place was eerily quiet.

Gloria’s voice made Angie jump. “The doctors noticed something odd about his condition.” Gloria stepped up beside her and took Bud’s hand. “Since he’d been out all night they expected him to be suffering from exposure, but he didn’t show signs of having been outdoors more than a half hour or so.”

“Is it possible he was somewhere in the house the whole time you were out looking for him? Maybe someplace you wouldn’t look, like asleep on Jarvis’s bed. Maybe when he woke up he went outside looking for you, passed out and fell down.”

“I didn’t look for him in Jarvis’s room. Why would he go in there?”

“No idea. I just tried to account for the circumstances.”

They drove back to Jarvis’s house all in separate vehicles. What could be in the briefcase? The only logical thing was his will. And if what she’d been thinking turned out to be true, nobody would like what the document said.

She handed Gloria a sleeping pill and put her to bed. She changed her clothes and went to the kitchen where Jarvis shoved two frozen dinners into the microwave. Her first instinct was to frown, but it didn’t matter, she couldn’t eat much anyway. A half hour later, he headed for the shower and Angie went for the briefcase. As she tiptoed into the spare bedroom she wondered why she hadn’t mentioned its existence to Jarvis. Simple, because if Bud wanted him to know, he would’ve told him. Gloria lay on her side, breathing slowly and rhythmically. She spotted the case, leaning against the wall near the closet. She slid two fingers through the expensive leather-clad handle, lifted and padded to the kitchen. It was extremely light. Angie set the case on the table, then used thumbs and index fingers to pop the unlocked clasps. She pushed up the lid. Wrapped in several layers of white tissue: a single gold key.

“What have you got there?”

Angie dropped the tiny key. It clattered to Jarvis’s floor. They nearly bumped heads trying to grab for it. “Looks like it fits a safe deposit box.” He examined the briefcase’s pockets. “Funny, that’s all he’s got in here.”

“I figured his will would be in here.” She fingered the key. “I guess it’s wherever the box is.”

“Probably back in his home town.”

“I don’t think so. Bud impressed me as a logical thinking, detail-oriented guy. He knew he was dying. He wouldn’t make his family go traipsing all over the country to get it. Something’s missing though, the signature card so that whoever has the key can access the box. The bank won’t let anyone in without proper credentials.”

Angie closed the case and set it on the nearest chair. She dropped the key in her jeans pocket, went to the living room and sat on the sofa. Jarvis accompanied her, questions all over his face. He started with, “How did you know about the briefcase?”

“While you were in the room with Bud, Mom told me he’d asked me to go back and get it. That he wanted to see me.”

“Why you?”

She shrugged. “All I can figure is he knew he didn’t have much time and wanted to spend as much as possible with you and Mom.”

Jarvis said, “Maybe,” but Angie could tell he’d heard the wavering in her voice.

On the coffee table lay an envelope from a one-hour photo developer at the pharmacy. Angie scanned a few of the pictures, looking for something to talk about. Gloria had taken them during the second night’s performance. Idly, Angie thumbed through, flicking them like cartoon pages. A man’s face caught her eye. She went back over each, carefully searching for it. She got all the way through the pack and hadn’t found him. She went through a second time, still not finding the one that had made her stop.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“You were shaking your head, like you were disagreeing with yourself.”

“I’m probably just tired. I thought I saw something—someone.” Angie knew better. “Seeing things” was her subconscious trying to get her attention. This time she dealt the photos across the tabletop, then studied each one closely. Many were of the sets, props and costumes. These Angie discarded. The rest were taken as the play progressed: Trynne in the wheelchair with Blake the understudy standing nearby. Trynne with her little blonde daughter in her lap. Blake and Jarvis. Jarvis holding the gun on Blake. After the play: Trynne with a hand to her mouth, stifling a yawn. Angie smiled. Trynne had spotted Gloria with the camera and the next photo showed her laughing and wiggling a threatening finger in the air. There were four blurry figures in the background of that shot. In another, Blake listened seriously to a big bosomed lady who played a storekeeper.

A second envelope also contained pictures. About half the roll was of some tour Gloria had been on. The last half must’ve been taken Friday night, before the play. One showed four people—Blake, Jarvis, someone Angie didn’t recognize, and John—laughing.

Angie massaged her temples with her index fingers. Jarvis nudged her hands away and took over the kneading of her flesh. She didn’t let the wonderful sensation draw her attention away. Whichever photo had caught her eye didn’t capture it a second time. This phenomenon had occurred before: in John’s kitchen as she’d thumbed through a pile of American Iris Society Bulletins. That time, the familiar face belonged to a woman.

“Can’t place it?” he asked.

“No.” Men looking like women. Women looking like men. It all meant something. But what? No matter how she tried Angie couldn’t tie her newfound knowledge to the man/woman ‘thing’. She tipped her head up, down, left and right, working out the kinks, then gathered up the colorful prints and replaced them in envelopes.

Trynne’s name begins with M, Angie’s little voice reminded her. M was one of the letters Sondergaard might have been trying to communicate. No. He wouldn’t refer that way to someone with whom he’d been intimate. He’d call her Trynne, or some pet name. Angie’s little voice didn’t reply. Damn, she told it, if you’re going to plant ideas in my head, at least follow up on them.

Jarvis released her neck, rose and went to the kitchen. He returned with a can of beer and a juice glass of brandy.

“You trying to jog my memory?” she asked with a grin.

They went to bed together at eleven, but there was no hanky panky; they lay there side by side staring at the freshly painted ceiling. Bud’s death had left a void in their lives. And a whole lot of unanswered questions.

At three, Angie rose quietly so not to disturb Jarvis. He must’ve fallen asleep because he didn’t budge. She checked on Gloria, who appeared to be sleeping, then went to sit on the couch staring at the empty television screen.

Just after seven, she heard Gloria moving around in the bedroom, Angie went to the kitchen and made toast and coffee. They sat in thoughtful silence over the strong brew. Her mother looked well rested, and pensive.

Angie set down her cup. “I opened Bud’s briefcase last night. It held only a small key. Did you remember him mentioning anything about a key, a safe deposit box, or anything like that?”

Gloria thought a moment and shook her head. “No.”

“Did Bud mention a will?”

“Not sure what you mean. He said one existed, that’s all. I didn’t ask; it was none of my business.”

“What are you doing today?”

“I thought I’d help Jarvis with funeral arrangements. Try to take some of the pressure off him. For now I’m going to shower and iron some clothes. What about you?”

“I have an idea I want to follow up on.”

“Is there dress rehearsal today?”

“No. We don’t have rehearsal on show days. I called Tyson, he said everything went well yesterday. He sends his condolences.”

After Gloria disappeared into the bedroom, Angie located the telephone book in the drawer near the kitchen phone and turned, for the second time in as many days, to the Yellow Pages, under A for airlines. Less than twenty minutes later, she dropped in the living room chair, airline passenger list clutched in a sweaty but enormously self-satisfied hand. Her ‘sibling’ had traveled under an alias, but it was such an obvious alias—Rap McSodie—that anyone could’ve tracked it down. Everything was finally falling into place.

“Whatcha doin’?” Jarvis asked, padding into the room, barefoot and wearing just flannel pajama bottoms.

She stashed the pages behind her back. Not the right time to divulge the killer. Too much happening—would be happening—over the next few days. Right now he couldn’t logically assimilate what she had to say.

“Hmm?” he asked, sitting and peeking behind her.

A partial explanation was needed. She handed him the passenger list. He skimmed down the printed columns as he dropped on the couch beside her. “Damn. He’s not here. I was so sure you were on to something.” He tossed the pages on the coffee table.

“It’s there,” she said softly.

He frowned and read the list again. When his eyes reached half way down the sheet, a small smile clutched the corners of his mouth. His long index finger stabbed the page. “Him?”

Angie nodded, slowly.

Jarvis folded the pages and put them in his pocket. “Now tell me what it all means.”

“I’m not sure yet,” she lied. “Not even sure whether he wore a disguise.”

“You mean it might be a woman?”

“Might be.”

Jarvis read the papers again. “The flight to Philly left at 10:30.”

Angie’s laugh brought his head sharply up. His expression questioned the basis for the laugh. “You brought me here because I was in danger. The danger got on the plane with us.”

“But came back on a flight that night.”

“Under normal circumstances, would this be enough evidence to pick someone up?”

“It would be enough to pick them up but not enough for a conviction in court. We’d need more.”

Angie went to the window to peer through the blinds. The sun shone brightly. On winter days, when it shone like this, it sparkled like millions of fireflies. Today the landscape looked dull and sad as everything turned to liquid. Mud season had begun. She hated mud, as did most everyone in the North Country, but also cheered its appearance since it meant the long winter was over. She stood for a long time, wheels churning inside her head.

“What’re you thinking?” he asked.

She let the slats clink back into place. “Spring is here.”

Jarvis came to hug her from behind. His crossed arms in front of her, each hand located and cupped a breast. She leaned back into him and sighed when his fingers tweaked her nipples through the material.

“Do we need a warrant to go back in John’s house?”

He laughed and gave gentle squeezes to each breast before releasing them. “Fine time to change the subject.”

She twisted in his embrace. “You’re the one who’s changing the subject.”

He gave an exaggerated moan. “What are you thinking this time?”

“That we need more information, another clue. I have a suspicion it’s in John’s house.

“What would we be searching for?”

Angie told him about her man/woman dilemma. “Twice, as I’ve flipped through photographs I thought I saw someone…but when I went back through the pile, I couldn’t find the person I thought I’d seen. I just have this unsettled feeling. That we’ve missed something.” She took their glasses to the kitchen overwhelmed with guilt for not divulging the whole story.

“You ever just think you’re cracking up?”

“It’s crossed my mind. The old warrant isn’t good any more?”

“It’s expired. I’d need a damned good reason to get a judge to issue a new one. Come on, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Let’s just go for a ride and get away for a while.”

“I’m not sure I should leave Mom alone. Maybe she could come with us.” Angie walked to the door of Gloria’s room and tapped lightly. No answer. She opened the door. Gloria lay on the bed, wrapped in a big brown bathrobe, curled in the fetal position.   Angie watched for a rhythmic rise and fall of her body, then shut the door and went to leave a note that they’d be at the theater.

Jarvis stowed his cell phone in a pocket. “That was Wilson. There’s more stuff on my desk. Man, I really hoped to leave this behind for a short while.”

“It will be over soon.”

As they passed the building housing the florist shop and Will’s office, Angie shouted, “Stop.”

Jarvis squealed the tires, the truck slid onto the shoulder a little past the building. Angie twisted in the seat. Donna’s shop windows were completely filled with irises. Angie got out of the car, unable to move her gaze away.

Jarvis appeared at her side. “What’s wrong?”

“Look at the window.”

“Flowers. So what?”

“Irises, Jarvis, irises. Donna told me irises aren’t big sellers in the shop. Why would she put them in place of everything?”

“Trying to stimulate interest in them? Jeez, I don’t know.”

Angie crossed the street, making an oncoming car slam on its brakes.

“Angelina!” Jarvis hollered.

She cupped her hands to see in the window. Pots and vases in all shapes, sizes and styles were lined up on shelves of differing heights, filling the plate glass window. In every color of the rainbow—including red. “It can’t be.”

“What can’t be?” he asked.

She pointed. Six brilliant red flowers overwhelmed the center spot. They were fanned out in a plain brown cloisonné vase, one that would do nothing to detract from the beauty of the flowers. “Isn’t that Rhapsody?”

“How would I know?”

“I’m going in.”

He grabbed her sleeve. “I don’t think you should.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, she knows everyone’s looking for the red. She put them here—as an invitation.”

“More like a tribute to Sondergaard. Come on, let’s get out of here. We don’t have much time before we have to get to the theater.”

“She’s already seen us.” Angie waved at Donna, coming from the back room carrying an armload of irises. “Pretend you’re angry with me.”

“That won’t be difficult.”

Angie gave him a piercing look, raised her voice in an argumentative tone and added a few angry hand movements. “I’m stopping here, that’s all there is to it. Go home and watch your stupid television, I’ll walk home.” In a low voice she added, “Storm back to the car. I want to see if I can get her to talk.”

Jarvis played his part with the professionalism of a seasoned actor, raising a defiant chin and stiffening his spine. “Fine. I’ll wait five minutes, then I’m leaving.” He stalked across the street and got into the truck and slammed the door, hard.

Angie gave an irritated foot stomp, and jerked open the florist shop door. She stormed across the room, setting her mouth in a flat line. Donna put the vases on the counter and turned. She gave a sad smile. “Lover’s tiff?”

“Bah!” Angie pretended to wave Jarvis out of her mind. “Nice flowers.”

“They’re a tribute to Pedar.”

“Too bad he can’t see them.”

“I’d like to think he can.”

“They’re beautiful.” Angie went to the nearest shelf and examined the dozen or so flowers in a large ceramic vase, deliberately staying away from the six Rhapsodies. “Why did you cut these from the parent? Won’t they be ready for pollination soon?”

“I’m giving up breeding and…” Donna’s voice trailed off as she looked over Angie’s shoulder watching something out in the street. The squeal of Jarvis’s tires punctuated the relative quiet of the neighborhood. “Your ride just left.”

Angie huffed.

“I thought you two were close.”

“We’ve been dating, that’s all; two lonely people making life a little less lonely. How are you holding up?”

“Not very well.” Donna pulled two folding metal chairs from a narrow space between the counter and cash register. She handed one to Angie, unfolded her own and sat down.

“I can’t stay. I was just passing and saw the irises.” Angie sat in the chair and crossed her legs. “Jarvis’s father died.”

Donna nodded. “Your mother called and ordered flowers.”

Should she mention Rhapsody? Donna hadn’t so much as looked in their direction. Instead she asked, “Who gets Pedar’s money now that he’s dead?”

Donna gave a derisive laugh. “Money? What money?”

“You didn’t know he paid John Bloom three million dollars to develop the red?”

She looked genuinely surprised. “No way!” After a second she added, “He would’ve told me.”

Angie unclasped her hands and wiped them on her thighs.

“Or John would’ve told me.”

“The money is in John’s bank account.”

“I don’t believe it.” Donna flew to her feet and began arranging irises in a vase.

“Do you have any idea where either of them might have put a copy of their contract?”

“No contract. And no money.” Donna came and sat down. “Angie, you didn’t see what I saw. Pedar had no money.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He…” Donna sniffed. “He wanted to marry me, but he said he wouldn’t until he could afford to do it right.”

Poor Donna. Poor blind Donna. Possibly Donna couldn’t recognize an expensive manicure or hairstyle, but could she really have missed Sondergaard’s expensive clothes or that filigree ring? Didn’t she know about his wife?

“Have you ever been to Amsterdam? I heard it’s beautiful. That’s where he lives, right?”

Donna’s eyes lit up. “Yes, in the village of Hoorn, just outside Amsterdam. He was bringing me there for a two-week visit this summer. He said he already bought my ticket…for August 14th. I can’t—couldn’t—wait. Believe it or not, I had a lot of my things packed already.”

“Oh my goodness,” came a voice from the doorway.

Trynne wore a striped pantsuit of blue and lime green, that could’ve been from straight out of the sixties—and it looked great on her. Angie nearly blurted out, I thought you were arrested again.

Trynne marched to the window display. “Ooh, is this Rhapsody?”

Angie’s adrenaline perked to life, and soared into her veins like rocket fuel. She rose and went to Trynne, bent over the vase of red irises. Trynne moved closer, tilting her head to examine each petal. “Are these really Rhapsody? They’re very, very lovely.”

Direct. Angie liked that.

“I decided to put out a display that would honor John and Pedar’s work.”

“Pedar?” Trynne asked, facing them.

“Pedar Sondergaard,” Angie responded. “He’s the one who fronted the money for John’s research.”

“Angie, I told you there was…no…money.” Donna accented the last three words, then whirled around and went to the center shelf arrangement. She adjusted the vases three times before settling on a display similar to the original.

“Do you know who Rhapsody’s parents are?” Angie asked.

She couldn’t read the look Donna gave before saying, “The iris parent is Play with Fire.”

“I’m assuming there’s a genetic parent who’s not an iris?” Trynne asked.

“Right. And you can believe me when I say I don’t know what it is. John guarded that secret very closely.”

Interesting that John hadn’t trusted Donna enough to divulge the gene donor of Rhapsody. “Did you have suspicions?”

Donna nodded, rearranged the vases once more and then faced Angie. “I really thought it might be a tomato.”

Trynne straightened up and laughed. “Makes sense.”

“What makes you think it was a tomato?” Angie asked.

“Because he grew several varieties in the greenhouse.”

“Didn’t he sell tomatoes in the nursery?”

“Yes, he sold a lot of vegetables, in flats, as annuals,” Donna said, plucking at a wilted flower petal and wadding it in a fist. “They all came from distributors. The ones I saw were in the greenhouse attached to the lab.”

“What does Play with Fire look like?” Trynne asked.

Angie threw her a glance, but she was innocently looking at Donna, waiting for a reply. Donna picked up a potted iris from the far end of the display. One of the tall varieties, more than three feet; the flowers were deep cinnamon/maroon throughout. Under the fluorescent bulbs, it glimmered with highlights of burnt orange and gold.

“Very pretty,” Trynne said.

Trynne walked the length of the exhibit. At the end, she retraced her steps. “I stopped in to see if you had some calla lilies. I thought they’d cheer up my dining room.”

“I have some whites out back.” Donna disappeared through the rear door.

“Some display, isn’t it?” Angie said.

“Sure is. What’s all this about John having a financial backer?”

“Someone paid him three million to develop Rhapsody.”

Air whizzed between Trynne’s teeth. “Three million dollars. Damn.”

“About Rhapsody…”

Donna returned carrying a plastic holder with bundles of callas and daisies. “How many did you want?”

Trynne met her at the counter. “A dozen. No, make it eighteen.”

Donna rolled the flowers in thin green paper. Angie said good-bye to Donna and left with Trynne. Angie’s intention was to restart the conversation about tomato gene donors, but Trynne now seemed in a hurry. “I’ll talk to you soon. I’ve got some slides percolating.”

Angie took a long hard look at the spot where Jarvis had been parked, then back at Trynne’s car speeding away. Why the hurry, and why hadn’t Angie asked for a ride? She started walking. Around the slight bend near the park, she spotted Jarvis’s Jeep. It was empty.

Her heart lurched into her throat, making her choke. Even if Jarvis were to take a nap, he’d only lean his head back on the seat, he wouldn’t lie down. If he was lying on the seat, he had to be…

She broke into a run.

He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead. Her legs pumped to the rhythm of her anxiety. What if she never saw that silly Sherlock Holmes hat again, or heard his comforting words? Jarvis had a way of knowing what she thought, knew when something was wrong. Had she and Will ever been that in tune?

She smelled everything on the air: mud, dead leaves, and that indefinable aroma of spring. She tasted the same on the air. Heard the sharp, staccato call of a blue jay, the gentle whoosh of air through the treetops. Saw no movement in Jarvis’s truck. This couldn’t be happening—especially not if her theory was right.

Her hand touched the damp metal fender and used it as a prop. Her shoes slipped on the gravelly shoulder, the metal provided no handhold and she went down. Pain stabbed Angie’s knees. Gravel dug her palms. Panic brought her upright, feet scrabbling for traction. Her hand found the bumper again; fingers followed its length, felt the grit of road dirt on the paint, a small dent behind the passenger door, gripped the door handle, absorbed its strength.

Of their own accord, Angie’s eyes closed.

She forced them open and looked inside. The truck was empty. Despair closed her throat. Tears blurred her vision.

Behind her, gravel crunched. Fingers gripped her upper arms. Fear pulsed through her extremities. Angie twisted around and lashed out, wishing in that instant of time, for a gun. Her left fist made contact with the soft solidity of flesh.

“Ouch! For chrissake, what’s the matter with you?”

She swung again.

Fingers tightened, shook her. “Angelina!”

The facial features spun, changed places. She was shaken a bit more, the features collided then finally fused into a face. Jarvis’s face. Her legs buckled and she went down hard. He knelt beside her.

Anger boiled up. “Where were you?” She swung at him again. Her fist struck the side of his neck. She hit him again. And again. He gripped her wrists and pinned them tight against her thighs. She struggled, yanking and thrashing against his grip. “Where were you!”

He leaned in, putting his face close to hers. “Honey, stop.”

Tears. Sobs: wracking, heaving sobs. He folded both arms around her and pulled her to his strong chest. He was alive.

“Why didn’t you answer when I called you?” he asked.

“I didn’t hear you.”

His hands were helping her up. Her legs wobbled, wouldn’t hold the weight. She let him prop her against the truck, inch her onto the seat, buckle her in. The road’s low shoulder made him short, she gazed onto his balding spot. As if feeling her stare, he peered up, concern etching every line of his almost-handsome face. He laid his head on her lap. Her hand moved to the back of his neck, massaging the taut tendons. They remained that way a long time, morning light shrouding them in its embrace.