Slice and Dice (11 page)

“What’s going on?” asked Arthur, shooting Constance a hard look. He shut the door and then took a seat on the couch. “How come you look so … so dour?”

Kenny unbuttoned his suit coat and sat down in one of the club chairs. He folded one leg carefully over the other to avoid crushing the crease in his pants, then straightened his tie. “My question, too, Constance. You sounded upset on the phone.”

As she watched her son-in-law primp, she thought again how distinctly reptilian he was. When he was deep in thought, his eyes would narrow to slits, and when he was pleased, his red lips would spread thinly across his flat, pallid face. Even though he was an unusually clever lawyer, the emphasis he placed on his appearance — the cologne, the heavy gold jewelry, the
thin,
always perfectly clipped mustache — repulsed her. His vanity suggested that he saw himself as nothing less than a Casanova, which was absurd. Funny how some people could deceive themselves about their sex appeal. Did he live in a world with no mirrors?

“Constance?” Arthur sat forward, trying to get her attention. “Where are you? You seem so far away.”

She turned to look at him. More and more these days, she was getting lost in her own thoughts. Perhaps it was her age, but reverie at a time like this could spell trouble. Coming back to Minnesota had only intensified these minor trances. She was feeling uncharacteristically fragile and sentimental, and that wouldn’t do. Switching her attention back to Kenny, she said, “I received a phone call last night. Someone — I don’t know who — has been given a very large advance to do a tell-all biography. Unauthorized.”

“On you?” said Kenny, examining his nails.

“Don’t be an ass. Of course on me. I want you to find out who it is.”

“That could take some time. And money.”

“The money’s no problem; the time is. Whoever’s doing it is here in town right now digging into my past. From what I was told, he or she might even be staying at this hotel.” She paused, glancing at Arthur. “I want it stopped, Kenny. And I want it stopped immediately.”

“That might be difficult.”

“Damn it! Do something to earn your keep.”

He flicked his eyes toward her, then continued examining his nails. After a few seconds, he removed a silver cigarette case from his inner pocket. “Would anyone care for a smoke?”

Arthur shook his head.

“No,” said Constance curtly. The ashtray in front of her was already filled.

Patiently, Kenny plucked one from the case. “Why don’t you tell me who your informer is? I can start there.”

She hesitated, then said, “Milton Culbertson at Random House. He edited one of my cookbooks a few years back. But be discreet, Kenny. That’s important.”

“I’m always discreet.”

“I’ve got some friends in publishing,” said Arthur, scowling at a spot in the rug. “Maybe I could shake something loose.”

“I don’t care how we do it,” she said, rising from her chair. “We’ve got to stop this person.”

Kenny touched a match to the tip of his cigarette, then shook it out. “Would you care to tell me why you’re so concerned?”

“Oh, come on,” said Arthur, not even trying to hide his indignation. “Everyone’s got moments in their past they’d rather not share with the world.”

“Moments?”

Constance could almost hear his tail rattle. “Just do your job.”

“And what am I supposed to do when I find this man or woman?”

“Buy him or her off.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then threaten to tie the book up in court. You’re good at that.”

His thin lips spread. “Information has a way of leaking, Constance.”

“Just find the person before they can do any damage.”

“You make this sound serious.”

“It is.” She adjusted her robe, giving herself a moment to calm down. She didn’t want to lose her temper because, knowing Kenny, he’d read too much into it. “I refuse to allow my good name to be smeared by a lot of cheap gossip.”

“Is that all it would be? Cheap gossip?”

She glared at him. “Yes.” She said the word coldly. “I don’t need to explain myself to you. If you want, I can find someone else to do die job. You’ve made a lot of money working for me, Kenneth, but there are other lawyers out there.”

He leaned forward and tapped some ash into an ashtray. “Don’t get all huffy on me, Constance. I have your best interests at heart.”

“Because they coincide with your own.”

He acknowledged her comment with a slight shift of his eyebrows. “I’m just trying to understand what’s going on here. If you want my help, any information you can give me will only make my task easier.” He paused. “Is there anything else I’m
allowed
to know?”

Constance walked to the window that overlooked the river. “Milton only passed on one other fact. The tentative title of the book.”

“And that would be?”

“It’s a stupid play on words.”

“But it could be helpful.”

She turned to face him. Squaring her shoulders, she replied,
“Slice and Dice.”

She couldn’t quite decipher the look on his face, but since he loved innuendo, she figured he got the point.

Sophie set the breakfast tray on the bed, crawled under the covers, then pulled the tray closer. “You don’t mind sharing, do you?” she asked, kissing Bram on his nose.

“I like sharing,” he said, glancing at Ethel on her pillow next to the bed. “As long as it’s just you and me.”

Sophie peered down at Ethel, too. Poor dog. She’d been so devastated when her pillow had been moved to the lobby that Sophie had to buy another pillow to replace the one in the bedroom. And then another for the living room so that Ethel would have someplace soft to sit while she lazed in the morning sun. And then one more so that she’d have a comfortable perch from which to guard her tennis balls under the dining room table. Sophie wasn’t sure where it all would end. They were already tripping over the damn things, and Ethel seemed to be lobbying for a new one. She wanted it in the kitchen, next to the refrigerator, so that she could be close to whomever was cooking just in case a potential food opportunity arose. It was really pretty funny, watching her drag herself, with all the drama of an aging Norma Desmond, from pillow to pillow. The furniture no longer got the workout it used to, but the apartment was beginning to look like a Turkish harem.

“So did you enjoy the movie last night?” asked Bram, chewing on a piece of bacon.

“Moderately.”

“We didn’t talk about it much on the way home. We usually do.”

“I was tired, I guess.”

“You were preoccupied.”

She snuggled closer to him. “I suppose I was.”

“About the new job at the
Times Register?”

“Yes, that, and Harry Hongisto.”

“Ah, the poison-pen letter.”

She nodded.

“Anything else?”

Chewing the tip of her toast, she said, “Hmm?”

“I asked you if you were preoccupied about anything else.”

“No, not really.”

Taking a sip of orange juice, Bram continued. “Who was that man I saw you with yesterday afternoon?”

She moved away from him and studied his face. Was he psychic or what? “What man?”

“The tall guy with the mangy brown hair. Widow’s peak, if I’m not mistaken. Dark eyes. Didn’t catch the color. Too far away. Sensitive mouth. More or less our age, I think. Reasonably well dressed. Too L.L. Bean for my taste. Confident type. Handsome, I suppose, if you like your looks rugged. Or should I say craggy? He won’t age well. His hair’s probably got, oh, another year or so before it starts falling out. And I detected the beginnings of a potbelly under his suit. My guess — too much beer. Of course, the sensitive mouth won’t change, but if he doesn’t take care of his teeth, he could be looking at a false set before you know it. Oh, and I believe his name is Nathan Buckridge.”

She banged him on the arm. “What’s going on? You’re having me followed by some sleazy private eye?”

“The only sleazy eyes that were following you were Nathan’s. What the hell is that guy to you?”

She was caught. Yesterday she’d wanted to tell him that his theory about old boyfriends never dying had once again proved accurate. And yet this morning she would have preferred to drop the entire subject. She needed more time to think about how to tell him she’d bumped into her first love. Not that Bram was the kind of man to feel threatened by an old boyfriend. Still, she wanted to break it to him gently, just in case.

“I’m waiting,” he said, chewing his bacon. “He’s a guy —”

“A guy. Good. Keep going.”

“I knew him a long time ago. When I was in high school. He was a couple of years older than me. We dated. And, well, he followed me out to California.”

“Was he part of your church?”

“No.” She sighed. “He hated the church. If it hadn’t been for that…” She stopped, looking down at the toast in her hand.

“You seem to be having a hard time telling this story, Soph. I wonder why. I’m a big boy, you know. I realize you had a life before you met me.”

Brushing a lock of hair away from his forehead, she said, “He wanted to marry me.”

“And how did you feel about him?”

“I loved him. Very much. But we couldn’t be together. I’d made a commitment to a different kind of life.”

“The Church of the Firstborn.”

She nodded.

“He must have been pretty angry.”

“He was.”

“And what about you?”

Again she hesitated. “Giving him up was … difficult.”

Bram tossed the half-eaten bacon back on the plate. “So what we have here is a case of unrequited love — on both your parts. A fairly combustible situation. Is he married?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t suppose, in the interim between the time you last saw him and now, he’s discovered he’s gay.”

She smiled. “No such luck. But look, Bram, I don’t have any feelings for him anymore. I was just a girl the last time I saw him. More important, I’m happy with my life now, and I happen to be very much in love with my husband.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“It’s the truth.”

He drew her to him, kissing the top of her head. “Well, if it’s not, all I can say is, you were pretty convincing last night in bed.”

“It wasn’t a performance.”

He stroked her arm. “How long is this Buckridge character going to be in town?”

“No idea.”

“Are you planning to see him again?”

She knew he wasn’t going to like her answer. “Actually, I agreed to meet him for lunch on Monday.”

“Ah. Love in the afternoon.”

“Bram!”

He held up his hand. “I know, I know. But you’d tell me if… if anything changed for you, right?”

“Nothing’s going to change.” She hoped with all her might that she was telling the truth. “Nothing’s changed for you, has it? I mean, I’m still your one and only.”

“Forever and ever, Sophie.”

She smiled, laying her head back against his shoulder. Unfortunately, she’d lived long enough to know that sometimes forever had a way of dissolving into nevermore. But she was determined that it wasn’t going to be that way for them. Bram was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Nathan Buckridge was just a memory.

“So what’s on our agenda for this evening?” asked Sophie, nibbling her toast.

“Would you believe I’ve got tickets for a Twins game?”

She groaned.

“You’re not delighted?”

“I love you madly, dear, but not madly enough to sit through one of those interminable ballgames.”

He retrieved his piece of bacon. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to call one of my old girlfriends.”

She rolled her eyes. ‘Try your cop buddy, A1 Lundquist.”

“You know, his knuckle cracking has been getting on my nerves lately.”

“I had no idea you’d ever noticed.”

“You think I’m some sort of insensitive gorilla type, right? Some Darwinian primate?”

“You’re much too suave to be a gorilla.”

“Thank you.” He narrowed one eye. “I can tell you’re about to compare me to something else. An orangutan, perhaps?”

“Actually, I was thinking of a penguin. They wear tuxedos and they’re awfully cute.”

“Cute?” Disgusted, he pushed himself out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“To my tailor’s. From now on, I will wear nothing but loud Hawaiian shirts and cheap drawstring pants. Nobody calls me a penguin and gets away with it.”