The Cruel Ever After (19 page)

The top drawer on the right side of the desk was filled with the usual office paraphernalia—a box of paper clips, a box of staples, tape, scissors, a few purple felt-tip pens. The middle drawer contained stationery and envelopes. In the bottom drawer he found a bottle of premium Scotch and several shot glasses. He knew the bottle would be there, unless one of the cops had taken it in for questioning.

On more than one occasion, he’d been offered a shot or two after the end of a “wicked long day,” as Morgana liked to call them. He lifted the bottle out, set it on the desk, and stared at it, his eyes dry, his hands clammy under the gloves. Unscrewing the cap, feeling the moment like a heaviness in his bones, he tipped the bottle back and took a swallow. It burned his throat and began, if ever so slowly, to untie the knot in his stomach. He held the bottle up to the moonlight, saluting the oil portrait of Morgana hanging on the opposite wall.

“May Allah give you an easy and pleasant journey and shower blessings on your grave. Salaam.”

He took another swallow, and then another, and another, until a good third of the nearly full bottle was gone. He wiped the top off with his glove and set the Scotch down on the floor next to the chair. Why put it away when he might want more?

He opened the top drawer on the left side—the only drawer on that side—and discovered a treasure trove of Morgana’s personal cosmetics: lipsticks, powder, eyeliner, perfumes, other various and sundry potions and war paint. The perfume wafted lightly toward him, and for just a moment, he felt as if she were there, standing next to him … but the chicken stink was too strong. It overpowered the vision and dissolved it.

Why did he feel so deeply? How had he let this happen?

Leaning forward, Majid picked up a framed photograph Morgana always kept on her desk. It was a snapshot of Irina and Misty when they were kids. They sat together on the driver’s seat of a pontoon, arms around each other, mugging for the camera, with a shoreline covered in the confetti of fall foliage in the background. It was an idyllic photo. Happiness, wealth, health, family. Irina couldn’t have been more than ten, Misty a few years younger. He tried to see the future in their eyes, struggled to divine from their faces if they had any inkling at all of what life had in store for them. The answer, of course, was no. No one knew what life would bring. Humans were at the mercy of providence, the stars, chance, luck. The future was nowhere written in stone, although the past certainly was, cast as a sinful pillar of salt for all the world to see and revile.

Carefully, with a sense of great vigilance and solemnity, he set the frame back on the table. Then, with one lighting-swift sweep of his arm, he pitched forward and sent everything on the desk crashing to the floor.

“God forgive us,” he whispered, his voice raw with anguish. “God forgive us all.”

21

Irina patted Dusty’s back as she walked around the bedroom, waiting for the little burp to signal that it was safe to put him down for his morning nap. He’d been bathed, powdered, cuddled, and dressed in a clean organic cotton Onesie. She lifted him off her shoulder and kissed his forehead, then placed him on his back in the crib and covered him with a thin cotton blanket.

“Mummy will be right back,” she said, smoothing his cheek with the backs of her fingers.

She walked briskly down the hall to Misty’s bedroom and threw back the door. “You promised you’d babysit Dustin this morning.” She felt no desire to be nice. With beer cans littering the carpet, scuzzy people sitting around outside the house all day, and the constant late hours that caused Misty to sleep until noon, she was driving Irina bananas.

“Chill,” mumbled Misty, rolling over and pulling the covers up over her head.

Irina found her sister’s morning mellowness intolerable.

“Get up,” she demanded. The ashtray on the once flawless nightstand overflowed with butts. The room smelled foul—sweat mixed with smoke mixed with garlic mixed with the stale smell of beer.

“Sure thing, Kemo Sabe,” came Misty’s muttered response.

“This is important.” She yanked the blanket off her sister, let it drop to the floor.

“Jesus, are you nuts?” said Misty, pulling up a sheet to cover her nakedness. “Why are you being such a nasty-ass bitch?”

“I put Dusty down for his nap. I need to use your car again.”

“Sure, take the car. Take my credit cards. Take whatever you want. You seem to think you own the world.” She sat up in bed and ran a hand through her tangled hair. Smacking her lips, she muttered, “I feel like hell.”

“You look like hell.”

She stifled a belch. “I never signed on for this crap. Did you call Steve?”

“No, and I don’t intend to.”

“I won’t babysit unless you call him.”

“I can’t,” said Irina, breezing out of the room. “I’m running late.”

“You never answer your phone, so he calls
me,
” Misty shouted after her.

Irina was in the kitchen now, drinking a glass of orange juice.

“I’m getting sick of it,” said Misty, stomping into the room. “I mean it. I won’t take care of your little …
problem
unless you promise to call him back.”

“All right, fine,” she said, setting her dirty glass in the sink. “I should be back in a couple of hours. Be sure to wear one of those white masks around the baby. And don’t smoke around him, understood?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

*   *   *

Jane stood on the front steps of her father’s house, touching her nose and hoping the makeup she’d used would cover the worst of the bruising. It wasn’t as black and blue as she’d thought it would be, but it was still visible.

The information she brought with her, the conversation she was about to have, made even the minimal breakfast she’d eaten condense into concrete inside her stomach.

“Lord, what happened to you?” said her dad, a pained look crossing his face.

“Someone jumped me last night as I was about to get into my car.”

“Where?”

“At the Lyme House.”

He held the door open. “Are you okay? Who did it? Did you get a look at him? I assume you called the police.”

The questions came out so fast that for a second she felt like she was on the witness stand and he was interrogating her, even though she knew it was concern. Digging her hands into her pockets, she said, “I’m fine, Dad. Why don’t we sit down.”

“I thought we’d talk in the sunroom.”

“Where’s Elizabeth?” she asked as they walked through the house, the home where she’d grown up.

“At church. If you want coffee, I just made a fresh pot.”

Jane had called her father late last night, telling him she needed to talk to him this morning. He replied that he had a golf date, but that if it was important, he could always cancel. Something in her tone must have betrayed her. They knew each other too well. He guessed that it was about Chess even before she said his name.

Settling herself on one of the two Morris chairs facing a series of multipaned windows overlooking the back garden, she waited for her dad to resume his favorite glider. From the newspaper sections scattered around on the floor, she assumed that he’d been reading, drinking his morning coffee, and eating his usual toast and orange marmalade, a habit he’d developed when the family had lived in England.

After he lifted his feet up on an ottoman, his eyes narrowed into a tight, concerned focus.

First things first, she decided. “I have something I need to tell you.” She seemed unable to find a comfortable position in a chair she’d always found so comfortable.

“About Chess?”

“It’s not something I’m proud of.”

She started slowly, telling him how Cordelia and Chess had become friends after Chess got a part in a play she was directing. It didn’t take long for the entire story—the marriage, the money, the lies—to come tumbling out.

Through the telling, her father sat motionless. She said everything that came into her head, saying too much, too quickly, her explanations turning into rationalizations. She finally stopped—just stopped herself, too embarrassed to go on.

Her father remained silent for a few seconds, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “I wish you’d never met that man. He’s a user. He used you then, and he’s using you now.”

“He swears he had nothing to do with Dial’s murder. You’re meeting with him this afternoon, right?”

Her father picked up his cup of coffee, held it to his chest, but didn’t take a sip. “Quite honestly, Jane, I don’t know that I’m willing to represent him. I didn’t like him when I met him at the birthday party on Friday night. I liked him even less yesterday. And now, after what you’ve just told me—” He shook his head. “If he was a friend of yours, I would, of course, make the effort, but he’s not.”

Jane couldn’t exactly disagree.

“Also, as much as you may not want to hear this, he may be guilty.” Looking down into his cup, he continued, “I got a call a few minutes ago. Seems the police have been sitting on something. I don’t know what it is, but it’s big. I’ll still meet with Chess this afternoon, but unless I hear something new, which I very much doubt, I’m going to recommend he find another lawyer.”

“He doesn’t have any money.”

“Not my problem. And it’s not yours either.” Tapping his nose, he nodded to hers and said, “Are you going to tell me about that?”

She cleared her throat in preparation for a brave leap into a subject sure to upset her father even more. “Someone’s searching for Chess. I got caught in the cross fire.” She explained about Lee spotting two men watching the Lyme House. “Nolan saw one of them sitting in a car outside my house. He even chased the guy, but then lost him. Seems that these men think I’m still married to Chess.”

Her father’s frown deepened. “I don’t want you anywhere near that guy, is that clear? I’m going to demand that he never contact you again. With any luck at all, he’ll be in jail by tomorrow on a murder charge. Then let’s pray these people, whoever they are, leave you alone. He’s bad news, Janey.
Very
bad news. Are we on the same page?”

She raised her eyes to meet his. “Same page, same paragraph, same line.”

22

Irina was relieved that Majid had made such great strides in reorganizing the first-floor gallery yesterday. If he hadn’t, she would never have been able to meet with Chess and Julia Martinsen this morning. Unless Ms. Martinsen wandered into the smaller galleries—the three bedrooms that had been turned into climate-controlled exhibition spaces—she would never know that anything was wrong. To that end, Irina made sure those doors were locked.

Sitting on the stool behind the front counter, feeling fortified after downing half a Sausage McGriddle and a Diet Pepsi, Irina flipped open the cell phone that had been shrieking at her from inside her purse.

“Hello?”

“Honey?” came Steve’s tentative voice. “It’s me. How are you?”

He didn’t sound angry, he sounded concerned. She could have dealt with anger, but not this. She wanted to hang up. “I’m okay.”

“Are you? Really?”

“Aren’t you still angry at me for shooting up the bedroom?”

“Not after I saw where the guy got in. He cut the back door screen. Broke the window and threw the dead bolt. I’m proud of you for what you did.”

“You are?”

“You’re a brave woman. You’re even a pretty good shot. Most of the bullets actually hit the door.”

His comments caught her off guard. “Just a mama bear protecting her young.”

He remained silent for a few seconds. “I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Or Dustin?”

“Or … Dustin.”

He knew. Maybe he’d known all along.

“Come home.”

“I can’t.”

“Why, Irina? If you’re frightened, I can protect you.”

“But you’re leaving.”

“I won’t go.”

She wanted him to go. She wanted the chance to build a new life with Chess and their son. “I need more time.”

“Don’t freak on me, okay? Go ahead. Stay with Misty. Until we can, you know, get things resolved. Oh, there’s something I need to tell you. A woman from the medical examiner’s office called about an hour ago. Your mother’s body will be released tomorrow afternoon. They need the name of the funeral home you’re using. They said they’d make the call and arrange the transfer.”

Irina had so much to do—relatives to call, an obituary to write, the entire funeral to plan. Steve repeated the woman’s name and number while she wrote it down on a piece of scratch paper.

“And your mom’s lawyer called last night,” continued Steve. “Something about getting you and Misty together to discuss the terms of the trust. Do you have his number?”

Irina didn’t think any further discussion was necessary. She and Misty had both read the trust agreement many times. Getting together was a formality she could live without. “I’ll take care of it.”

“So, I mean, could we have lunch or something? Tomorrow?”

“I’ll call you.”

“Will you?”

His concern touched her. He had to know that their marriage was past the point of repair. Then again, a few days ago, she’d been waffling herself, wondering what to do. Now her path was clear, as clear as little Dusty’s warm brown eyes. Her future was with Chess.

*   *   *

“Something wrong?” asked Julia.

Chess seemed on edge this morning. He turned and looked behind them as she pulled her Porsche into a parking space across the street from the Morgana Beck Gallery of Antiquities.

“Wrong?” repeated Chess. He fixed her with a smile of great warmth. “Nothing’s wrong.” After hesitating a moment, he added, “Well, to be honest, I thought I saw David’s car behind us.”

“David?”

“Let’s just say he’s an ex-lover and leave it at that.”

Now she got it. “Someone who lives here in town?”

“Alas, yes. It’s much too long a story and much too convoluted.”

He didn’t want to talk about his love life. Fine with her. She already had the beginnings of a bad headache brewing. “Say,” she said, switching off the motor and removing the key, “speaking of ex-lovers, have you had a chance to put in a good word for me with Jane?”

This time his smile fairly twinkled. “We had a long talk last night. All about you.”