The Cruel Ever After (18 page)

She gave a diffident shrug. “Yeah.”

“What?”

“Pot.”

“You kept a stash down here?”

“Sometimes.”

“What else?”

“I kept a journal for a year or so back in ’05. Didn’t want anyone to see it.”

“Anything more recent?”

Another shrug. “The love letters you sent me here at the gallery so Steve wouldn’t see them.”

“God, Irina, I told you to burn them.”

“I couldn’t,” she said weakly, her chin sinking to her chest.

He felt suddenly like the gold standard against which the notion of
patsy
was judged. Yet, lame as it was, it touched him that she couldn’t bring herself to burn his letters. She was a mess, but she wasn’t malevolent—and at the moment, she was the only ally he had.

“Okay, here’s what we do. I’ll phone Julia, tell her I can’t bring the bull by tonight. I’ll make some excuse. But I need to get her over here tomorrow so you can appraise the cylinder seal. How does your morning look? Say, ten?”

“Do you forgive me?”

He wasn’t willing to go that far. “If Majid did take it, I’ll get it back.”

“How?”

“Leave that to me.”

“But you didn’t answer my question.”

He walked over, took her hands, and drew her up into his arms. She was shivering, still fighting back tears. Could a heart break minimally? Microscopically? If so, that’s how his broke for her, although even that puny amount embarrassed him. She was a human wreck. How could he be drawn to that? “Of course I forgive you. We’ve got to stick together if we’re going to make this work.” It wasn’t true, of course, but it placed him back on home turf. Pity wasn’t his style. Nor was undying devotion. He couldn’t do happily ever after as a young man, and he sure as hell couldn’t do it now. If she was looking for that, from him, she was in for one hell of a letdown.

Yet the certainty he felt that he could never give her what she wanted made him unaccountably, mystifyingly, unfathomably sad.

19

Late Saturday night, Jane was hard at work in her office at the Lyme House, completing the pub’s summer weekend music schedule. Her concentration was continually broken by thoughts of Chess, what he’d done or hadn’t done, what his real reason was for coming to the Twin Cities and how his sudden reappearance had set in motion a series of damaging reverberations through her own life. Every so often she would shake herself out of a reverie, only to realize that she’d been staring into space for several minutes, completely unaware of the passage of time. It was during one of those reveries that she received a call from Sigrid.

“Hey,” said Jane, dropping her pen on the desktop and leaning back in her chair, glad to change the channel in her brain, if only for a few minutes.

“Thought I’d see if you were free Monday afternoon.”

“If I’m not, I’ll make myself free.”

“Excellent. I wanted to stop by, have that conversation I promised—the one about me and Peter, and other various and sundry earth-shattering issues.”

“Did we firm up a date yet when I can take Mia to the Art Institute?”

“We’re thinking next Thursday. How does that sound?”

“Perfect. Maybe I’ll take her out to lunch first.”

“You know, this is really nice of you. In the mood she’s been in lately, she could use another adult in her life.”

“I should have been there all along. What time on Monday afternoon?”

“Peter’s meeting with Julia over at her loft at four. He’s bringing Mia with him because he says the view is incredible and wants her to see it. He’ll be there about an hour. Thought I’d swing by after dropping them off. Maybe we could share an adult beverage and talk.”

“It’s a date. By the way, Julia told me last night that she’s hired Peter to film a documentary.”

“He’s had a couple of offers in the last month. He’s really pumped about it. Life is good, Jane. Really good. Anyway, gotta run. See you Monday.”

Life is good,
thought Jane, repeating the comment to herself as she rose from her chair and walked down the hall to the pub. As she was about to go inside to grab herself a beer, she saw Cordelia and a woman she’d never seen before barrel down the stairs from the first floor.

“You’re here,” said Cordelia, her expression full of enthusiasm. “I have someone I want you to meet.” Turning to the woman next to her, she said, “Jane, this is Val Brown. I’m on the cusp of hiring her to be Hattie’s new nanny.”

Jane held out her hand. “You’ve got a big job ahead of you.”

“I love kids,” said Val, glancing over Jane’s shoulder into the bar.

“Cordelia said you’re from Sacramento. What made you move to the Twin Cities?”

“To be closer to my girlfriend.”

From Cordelia’s startled expression, Jane figured she hadn’t done a particularly thorough job interview.

“She lives here?” asked Cordelia.

“No, in Fargo.”

“Then why didn’t you move there?” asked Jane.

“Ever been to Fargo?”

“Actually, I haven’t.”

“My girlfriend’s a sheep rancher, lives about forty miles out of town.”

“A … sheep … rancher?” said Cordelia, raising an eyebrow.

“Does she run the ranch herself?” asked Jane.

“Her six kids help.”

“
Six
kids?” repeated Cordelia.

“It’s a lot of work. That’s why she’s decided to sell and move to the Twin Cities. I figured your loft would be a perfect place for all of them to crash while she looks for an apartment. It’s big, open. Close to the bus line. Oh, and First Avenue. A couple of her boys are really into music—mostly heavy metal.”

Cordelia swallowed hard, squared her shoulders. “Val, dear, I’ve thought of a few more questions I need to ask before I make a final decision. Why don’t I buy you a beer.”

“Sure,” said Val, looking eager to get inside. “Nice meeting you, Jane. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

As they walked into the bar, Cordelia turned and drew a finger across her throat.

*   *   *

Jane left through the downstairs door just after midnight and headed up the hill to the back parking lot, where she’d parked her Mini. She was engaged in a one-way conversation with her brother when she heard the slap of footsteps. She spun around, catching a glimpse of a man with long blond hair. He grabbed her and forced her face-first against the rear fender of her car.

Twisting her arm behind her back and up between her shoulder blades, he said, “Tell me where he went.”

She tried to turn her head, to get a better look at him, but all she got for her effort was her face smashed against the trunk. Stars spun around her in the darkness. The coppery taste of blood trickled into her mouth.

“I’m not playing games,” said the blond guy in a low growl. “Where’d your husband go? Tell me where he is or I’ll break your fucking arm.” He shoved her arm higher.

She grimaced, gritting her teeth. “I don’t know,” she said, the pain triggering tears. “I’m telling the truth.”

“Bullshit. You’re protecting him.”

Her shoulder felt like it was about to pop out of its socket. “Okay, okay.” Nothing mattered except stopping the pain.

He eased up a little.

“He left town.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Chicago. The Drake Hotel. It’s where he always stays.”

“What about the bull?”

“The what?”

“Hey,” shouted a different voice, this one from farther away. “You there. Get the hell away from her.”

“What the fucking fuck,” said the blond guy, releasing her.

She stayed where she was, sprawled across the trunk, breathing hard, trying to catch her breath, all the while listening to the second guy shout a string of obscenities at the blond man. Easing her arm around in front of her, she rubbed her shoulder, still half leaning on the fender.

“You okay?” called Lee, rushing up.

She stood, turned around, and half slid, half fell to the ground.

Lee helped ease her down, then propped her back against the tire. He got down on his hands and knees, cupped his hand around the back of her neck, and studied her face. “This hurt?” he said, touching the bridge of her nose.

She groaned and pushed his hand away.

“I thought it might be broken, but it seems okay. Just bruised.”

She felt her upper lip, touched the blood oozing from her nostrils.

“Here,” he said, removing a handkerchief from his back pocket. “My mom always told me these would come in handy.”

“Lee to the rescue.”

“I wish I’d gotten here a few minutes earlier.”

“Was he the blond man you told me about?” she asked, her voice sounding nasal and stuffy.

“Yup,” he said, sitting down cross-legged on the pavement directly in front of her. “I’ve been watching the restaurant on and off. The boys were gone last night, I have no idea where, and then gone most of the day today. But on the way over to my soapbox on the other side of the lake tonight, I noticed the blond guy loitering by the wooden stairs that run down to the lake. I decided to stick around. I was over listening to the band concert earlier. I’d pretty much decided to call it a night and was heading back to my car when I saw him jump you.”

“I owe you my arm,” she said, using her tongue to search inside her mouth. She wanted to make sure all her teeth were where they should be.

He surveyed the parking lot. “You need more light back here. If you want, I’d be happy to give you a free security appraisal. I’m not selling anything. You can take my advice or leave it, no skin off my nose.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Those guys aren’t going to leave you alone, you know. Just a gut instinct on my part, but I’m right. What did he want?”

“He thought I knew where someone might be.”

“And do you?”

She shook her head.

“This someone—he, she important to you?”

“Not really. Someone I knew a long time ago.”

He was silent for a few seconds. “I get it. It’s this other person that’s the target. These people are trying to find him or her through you.”

“Him. And yeah, that would be my guess.”

He scratched the side of his face. “I hate to bang the same note again, but you could use better security.”

Jane was grateful he didn’t press her for more details. She drew his handkerchief away from her nose. “I’ll wash this and get it back to you.”

“Keep it.” He looked up at the sky. “Can’t see many stars in the city. Gotta get out in the country to really appreciate the night sky.”

“What did you preach about tonight?” She didn’t feel like getting up yet, mainly because she wasn’t at all sure her legs would support her.

“Read from the Epistle of Titus. That always inserts a note of terror into a romantic Saturday night.”

“You really do enjoy annoying people.”

He shrugged.

“How’s your search for home coming?”

“The more I see of the Twin Cities, the more I like it.”

“Wait until winter.”

“I lived in Chicago. Can’t be much worse than there.”

She finally garnered the courage to touch her nose again.

“Feel solid?”

“Feels swollen.”

“Maybe I should take you to the ER.”

The throbbing in her arm had subsided to a dull ache. “Help me up,” she said, using her good arm to push against the pavement.

Once she was standing more or less upright, she leaned back against the fender to get her bearings. And then she started to cry.

“Hey, there.”

It was suddenly just too much. Getting beat up. Chess. Her brother. She didn’t cry easily or often, but tonight she couldn’t seem to stop. She was about to crumple to the ground again when she felt his arm catch her.

“You’re gonna be fine, Jane. Just fine.”

She buried her head against his shoulder.

“Everything will work itself out. You’ll see.”

She was embarrassed and needed something to say. “Look, stop in for dinner anytime you want. Order champagne. Lobster. Anything you like.”

His bushy brown eyebrows dipped. “Really?”

“It’s on the house.”

“Well, hell, you feed me and I’ll do just about anything.”

She tried to smile, but her nose hurt too much. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

20

Majid held a small flashlight between his teeth as he dipped under the yellow police tape attached to the doorway leading up to the second floor. Shining the light on the stairs, he headed up to Morgana’s office. He’d worn a pair of soft deerskin gloves because he didn’t want to leave fingerprints.

The full moon looked as if it had been hung in the sky right outside the unshaded windows in the octagonal turret. Its weak light bathed the room in silver. Switching off the flashlight, he pulled out the desk chair and sat down. The room reeked like a chicken that had been forgotten in the back of a refrigerator and gone bad. On the blotter, as well as under his feet, the moonlight turned the bloodstains an inky black. He hadn’t expected anything quite this visceral to remind him of what had happened. He sat for a moment, composing himself, buttoning back his emotions.

He’d always wondered what it would feel like to sit in the queen’s chair, to lean back and gaze around the kingdom—not to pretend to be in charge, but to actually
be
in charge.

Majid drew back the top middle drawer and let his fingers trail lightly along a row of antique fountain pens. He selected the one Morgana had used most often—a 1916 Parker with a hand-carved full gold overlay. He removed the cap, inspected it, made a few lines on the edge of a piece of stationery. Almost like a paintbrush, the nib had lots of flex and allowed the ink to flow smoothly, evenly, with no scratchiness.

“A scepter,” he whispered.

Morgana had loved pens. He didn’t understand this minor obsession, although he liked this pen well enough. He clipped it inside the pocket of his leather jacket. She also loved the color purple. The fountain pens were all filled with purple ink. The heavy permanent markers she used to write on her file folders were purple. Even the ballpoints she insisted he buy for use in the downstairs gallery were ordered with purple ink.

Majid’s father had warned him years ago about women who favored purple—or lavender, or violet, or any incarnation thereof. He always seemed to work the question of a favorite color into conversations he had with women. He felt the answer “purple” was like a neon sign flashing the words
BALL-BUSTING BITCH
. Women who loved purple were imperious, his father had said, despotic, thought of themselves as goddesses. In many ways, Morgana fit the bill. She had lots of idiosyncrasies. Some of them were appealing, even fascinating. Some not so much.