SIX

 

       Angie wore a long sleeved white gown and her hair twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. When she opened the door Jarvis first whistled and then laughed. “We look like the quintessential Odd Couple.” His police issue nylon jacket and blue jeans definitely contrasted with her outfit.

Shipley’s Restaurant was crowded with people of the same mindset as he and Angie—dinner before the theater. They stood in line waiting for a table. “So, where were you all day?” Angie asked.

“Well, one thing…I met with my father.”

She tilted her chin up to him, watching his face for signs of his mood. Had he punched out the gentle old man in retaliation for his desertion so many years ago? Or raced into his arms, crying tears of joy that they were finally reunited? Angie suspected reality to be somewhere in between.

From his back pocket he drew out his wallet and handed her a sheet of paper. A photocopy of a very old black and white Polaroid. The edges were frayed. The images blurred. But Angie could make out a young couple standing on the lawn in front of a gargantuan stack of logs. The man, in his twenties was tall and lean, with curly hair, high Slavic cheekbones and a well-trimmed goatee; a young version of the person who’d visited the theater a day or so ago. Carson Dodge, in jeans and plaid shirt, pointed at something in the distance. The pregnant woman, wearing a flowered sundress, had shoulder length hair and big wide eyes. She stood stiffly beside the man. Neat cursive penmanship under the picture said Rena and Carson 1951.

“Your mother looks scared to death. Well, I assume that’s your mother.”

He nodded. “I was born nine weeks later, and my brother almost three years later. Dad took off two weeks after that.”

“Speaking of your brother, have you told him about Bud’s return?”

Jarvis gave a sardonic chuckle. “Called him right away. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell the bastard to get lost again.’”

“Really? You think he’ll come around in time?”

Jarvis shrugged. “Probably not. He can be pretty stubborn.”

“So, how did your meeting go?”

“He was there when you called. It was…It…I learned a lot of things. About him. About my mother. About why he left. After he left, I called my brother. Dwight wants nothing to do with him.” He shrugged. “Can’t blame him, I guess.”

The hostess led them to a table. Jarvis settled with his back to the wall, as he always did, so he could watch the goings on. He ordered drinks for them both. Then he leaned forward, lips pressed into a straight line. “I found a body in John’s bedroom early this morning.”

“A body? How come I didn’t see it?”

“Got there sometime after you and I left. ID puts him as a Lonnie “Sticks” Lawson. Twenty-seven. Resides in Manchester. That’s where I was most of the day. He’s got a long sheet: B&E, petty theft, small stuff. Nothing so far relates him to Bloom. He’s got three buddies he’s been in trouble with. I figure whoever hired him sent him back alone to one, look for more information, or two, something missing from the previous night’s haul.”

“John’s journal.”

Now Jarvis laughed. “Journal?”

“Trynne said scientists make meticulous notes detailing every process they do.”

“I bet that’s why that Lawson guy was there.”

“Makes sense.”

“It also makes sense that he wrote in it at night. You know, expanded all the things he did during the day while they were fresh in his mind.”

Jarvis grinned. “What makes you think he didn’t do it before going to the greenhouse every morning? You know, sit at the table with his morning coffee—or tea—and write down what he planned to do that day.”

“First off, he was a coffee drinker.”

“How do you know that?”

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Because the coffee pot had brown stains. He used it a lot. And because there was an inch of coffee—not sludge—in the pot.”

“Why do you think he wrote at night rather than in the morning?”

She couldn’t resist a superior smirk. “Because of the arrangement of the kitchen chairs. John’s chair sat so he could look out the window. If he’s doing serious writing, chances are he doesn’t want to be interrupted by what’s going on in the neighborhood.”

Jarvis rolled his eyes and put his elbows on the table, tenting his fingers together. “Is there anything else you didn’t mention?”

“He sat at the right end of the couch to watch television and quite often slept there. He liked to read in the bathroom. He didn’t smoke. He slept alone—at least most of the time.”

Jarvis stretched his arms on the table in front of him. “Okay. Tell me how you figured all this out in one walk-through.”

She gave him an I-can’t-believe-you-asked look and changed the subject. “Question: why didn’t John tell Trynne and Blake about the flower? He knew them both for years, knew they’d been involved in iris breeding.”

“Whoa. Go back. They were into irises?”

“Sure, when they were young. Back in Oregon.” Angie related Trynne’s past. Jarvis’s eyes grew wider with each word. “Anyway, knowing how dedicated the McCoys had been to the field, he should know he could trust them to keep the secret quiet. So, why didn’t he tell them?”

He gave a thoughtful nod. And a slow head shake.

“Did you learn anything about Sondergaard?”

“How fast do you think we can work? The case is only…” he pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch. “…twenty hours and eighteen minutes old.”

“I know.”

“We can’t work as fast as on television.”

“You aren’t supposed to be working at all.”

He touched a finger to his lips to sign for her to be quiet, and smiled. “I’ll stay till they throw me bodily from the building.”

“By the way, John had allergies.”

Jarvis laughed. “I don’t suppose you want a job on the force?” He leaned back so the waiter could deposit their drinks on the table. “I do actually have news about Sondergaard. People at the nursery in Amsterdam say he’s out of town. We thought they were lying, protecting him so we put in a call to the Amsterdam Police.”

“Sondergaard is out of town.” Angie let a few beats pass. “He’s here in the United States.”

Jarvis’s eyebrows unfolded and raised high.

“He’ll be in Philadelphia on Thursday.” She explained about her call to Mary Grayson and handed him the paper with the woman’s information.

“How the hell do you do it?” Jarvis shoved the paper in his breast pocket without reading it. At the same time, he drew out several sheets of what looked like fax paper.

“Do what?”

“Get information before authorities?”

She shrugged.

“There’s more, right?”

“Sondergaard met with John at the diner last week.”

“Shit, woman. You are amazing.”

She sipped again, letting Jarvis’ compliment flow over her in warm undulating waves. “Judy said at first they were talking low with their heads together. As the conversation went on, Sondergaard got upset. Not raving mad or anything like that, just sort of disturbed. Then John acted apologetic. Maybe you can tweak more information out of her.”

As their meals arrived, Jarvis slid the fax pages across the table. “I got this from the police in Amsterdam just before coming here.”

She picked at the food as she read. Page one: childhood/family history. Page two: education. She set both pages aside. Pages three and four were the history of Nielsen Nursery from inception in 1982. She set this aside also. Page five held a short but concise financial report. Pedar Niels Sondergaard was in the black, but just barely. This had been status quo for most of his life. The last page was a letter from an Axel Dyhr from the Amsterdam Politie.

To Detective Colby Jarvis,

Attached find information on your suspect, Pedar Niels Sondergaard. Except for a printout from the airline, which you’ll receive under separate cover, it is complete. Sondergaard has led a quiet, though busy, life. Nothing illegal or out-of-the-ordinary that we can determine. Most of his life has been spent researching irises. We’ve found nothing to suggest he might be involved in your case.

We hope this is helpful to your investigation and please don’t hesitate to contact this office should something more be required.

Regards,

Axel Dyhr

“I have more stuff at home: newspaper articles featuring the nursery. A couple of articles from Iris Society bulletins. He married in 1985. No record of divorce.”

Angie pushed her plate away.

“Nerves?”

“A little…Okay, a lot.”

He reached across and put his calloused hand on hers. “If we thought there was any danger of a repeat of last night, you would’ve been closed down.” He picked at some of her leftovers then set down his fork. “Come on, let’s go.”

Angie went through the motions of putting on her coat, walking to the car and making her way into the theater, but her mind lay awash in thought. Why were they so focused on Pedar Sondergaard? Because no other name had surfaced in relation to John Bloom. Because he was a geneticist. A red iris seeker. And seen with John just a week ago.

Still, they could be chasing the wrong person. The iris bulletins in John’s house were fat with information, pictures and articles, and potential suspects. Question: how had it all touched small-town New Hampshire? Why did John chose Alton Bay as a home base? Yes, conditions were good for growing irises but so were thousands of other places.

“Oh yeah, forgot to tell you something. A search of Bloom’s bank records showed he had just under three million dollars.”

Angie stopped walking. Jarvis bumped into her, the stage door slapped his backside. Angie turned; he folded his arms around her. Their breaths mingled as she asked, “Three million? Dollars? As in a three and a bunch of zeroes?”

“Six zeroes. Deposited in his account twenty-eight months ago.”

Months after the letter from Sondergaard to Bloom. Months after mention of the partnership. She took a sharp left turn and unlocked her office door. He followed her inside.

“We’re still working on it. We’ll find out where it came from.”

Jarvis helped Angie off with her coat and hung it on the back of her office door. He used his fingertips to smooth the fabric of her dress. She slapped him away. “Stop that. I can’t go out there looking like I stored pencil erasers in my dress.”

“Looks nice to me.” He laughed and stuck out his hand, pretending to pinch the peaked nipples.

She sought a subject that would keep her from thinking about shoving him on the long, hard sofa and tearing his clothes off. “I really wish you could find that journal.”

“Like looking for a flea on a sheepdog.”

“I suspect he carried it everywhere with him. Back and forth to the greenhouse to have it always available for notes.” Suddenly she spun around and pointed a finger at him. “I know where it is!”

“Okay, wiseass, where?”

“In his car.”

Jarvis’s face broke into a wide grin. “Damn woman, you’re good.”

“You did impound it from our parking lot, didn’t you?”

“Yup. We didn’t do anything with it because it didn’t seem related to his murder.” Jarvis whipped out his cell phone and called Sergeant Wilson. When he finished, his mood was a lot lighter.

“You didn’t finish telling me about your father,” Angie said.

Jarvis heaved his jacket on the arm of the sofa and flopped down. “He said my mother had another man. Shit, Angelina, I just can’t imagine that of my mother. You know?”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “There are two sides to every story. You don’t know. Your mother might be totally innocent. Or, she might’ve had good reason to cheat.”

“What the hell kind of reason—”

“Don’t let it destroy your memories of her. I’m sorry to have to break this up, but I have a lot of work to do.” She kissed him again. “I’ll see you after the performance.”

She strode from the office, careful in her spiked heels, along a narrow hallway. No light squeaked from under Tyson’s door. A great hubbub came from the common area, a large room with numerous rooms stemming from it like spokes: costume rooms, makeup rooms, dressing rooms. Chopin played in one of them, but only the occasional snatch of it could be heard. People in all manner of dress and makeup rushed from one place to another. Angie stopped to say hello, give encouragement, and bolster egos on her way to the ticket office. First, she had to make sure everything was ready for the second performance—a sellout since the day the tickets went on sale. She and Tyson had decided to do two shows tomorrow, the second to honor last night’s disappointed patrons.

Angie retrieved the vacuum from the tool room and did a quick cleanup of the mud on the lobby carpet. As she closed the door and turned to check on the stage lights, she bumped into Tyson. “How’s it going?” she asked.

“It’s a madhouse. Mostly nerves.”

“Are you nervous?”

“As a night crawler at a fishing tournament.”

* * * *

 

In spite of the nerves, the Saturday night show went off without a problem. Afterward, the cast gathered in the common area where long tables overflowed with food and champagne that Tyson had so considerately provided for the opening performance of the night before. Rolling Stones music blared from a boom box set like a centerpiece. The walls seemed to vibrate with the sound.

The reviewers were smiling. Ten members of the press were present. Tyson looked about ready to burst with enthusiasm when a reporter took him aside and a cameraman snapped pictures. The first step toward his Broadway career.

Jarvis, still in makeup and costume, approached. By his sides were his father and Angie’s mother. Jarvis handed her a flute of champagne and introduced her formally to Carson Dodge. Mr. Dodge took Angie’s fingers. Did he just bow? How gallant! No wonder her mother fell for him. But, there were those dark circles and sallow skin. Not the color and tone of someone his age. Her thoughts about the short-term-ness of Gloria’s and his relationship were cut short when he dropped her hand. She realized he was speaking.

“…your mother and I.”

Angie had no idea what he’d said and was too exhausted to ask him to repeat. Jarvis, Gloria and Carson chatted, but the voices were blurred, like they were talking through cotton batting.

At two a.m. Gloria and Carson said their good nights. As they left she told Jarvis, “I think my mother’s smitten.”

“He won’t let it go too far.” Then he said the words she’d been expecting, “He’s dying.” He sighed. “Come on, I gotta get out of here. Can’t hear myself think.”

Jarvis tugged Angie down the dark hallway and into her office. He kicked the door shut and shoved her back, thumping her head on the panel that vibrated to the Stones. His first kiss stifled her gasp of surprise. He leaned in, crushing her breasts with his chest. The thick bulge of the prop gun pressed into her hip. And became the most erotic sensation she’d—his tongue drove deep in her mouth—ever experienced. As the final pulse-pounding bars of Wild Horses shook the walls, Colby Jarvis rode Angie with the pulse-pounding fury of a stampede.