The Cruel Ever After (12 page)

“Hey, Janey,” called Mel from the porch door, waving the cordless phone. “It’s Nolan.”

She excused herself, cut across the grass, and went inside. Mel, looking festive in the jade green mandarin jacket Cordelia had bought her for the occasion, handed over the phone, then hoisted Hattie into her arms and carried her off into the dining room. The kitchen was humming with activity, so Jane retreated down the rear hall to her study and closed the door.

“Hi,” said Jane. “You got my message.”

After returning to the house with Hattie, Jane had given Nolan, her PI buddy, a call. She wanted to run the information Lee, the preacher, had given her by him to see what he thought.

Nolan was a former homicide cop, a friend, who had invited her to apprentice with him. Over and over again, he insisted that she had great instincts when it came to solving crimes, that she was a natural. He had a PI business that he wanted to pass on to her as a legacy, but before that could happen, she would need to put in enough time to get her own investigative license. A year ago, she’d almost agreed to step away from the restaurants for a while to work with him. That was back when she thought she could have her cake and eat it, too. She couldn’t, though. She had to make a choice. In an economy like this, the restaurants had to come first. In fact, as far as she was concerned, she was done with “sleuthing,” as Cordelia called it, altogether.

“I’m on my way over to the Lyme House as we speak,” said Nolan. “I thought I’d see for myself what’s going on.”

“I owe you. Honestly, I’m not sure how upset to be about these two guys.”

“Depends on what they’re after. Anything unusual going on that I should know about?”

“Can’t think of a thing.”

“I’ll call you later, let you know what I find.”

“But you’re coming to the party, right? We can talk when you get here.”

“Fine, but I expect your help on this one.”

“Nolan, I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“Let me hire you. I’ll pay you your going rate.”

“That’s crazy. This is another chance for me to teach you.”

“I’m too busy right now.” It was true, and it was a lie. She had to bite the bullet, tell him she’d made a decision, but that conversation would require a better venue than a birthday party. “We’ll talk.”

“Right.” He gave a disgusted grunt and rang off.

Jane heard a burst of laughter and clapping. Confident that it heralded the arrival of her father, she left the room and headed for the front hall. Sure enough, her dad, accompanied by his girlfriend, Elizabeth Piper, were receiving a warm greeting from the crowd. For the first time in over a year, her dad looked rested. He and Elizabeth had just returned from a monthlong vacation to Cape Cod.

After hugging them, Jane ushered them into the dining room, where her catering staff had set out the food on the long mahogany table. She’d made sure all her dad’s favorites were on order: chicken and beef satay with a spicy peanut sauce; tiny French tomato tarts with gruyère, Dijon mustard, and fresh basil; several whole charred beef tenderloin filets, sliced thin and served with horseradish sauce; crab cakes with roasted corn and bacon; and a particular favorite, traditional Southern-style buttermilk biscuits, hot from the oven, resting next to a chafing dish full of sausage gravy. In the backyard, several charcoal grills had been fired up and were churning out miniature pizzas, another front-runner for her dad’s favorite appetizer.

“There’s a bar in the back porch,” said Jane, this time just to Elizabeth. Within the space of a few seconds, her dad had been drawn into a heated conversation with a couple of his golf buddies. “We’ve got a special petit verdot, a wonderful pinotage, soft drinks, sparkling water, but mostly we’re pushing the champagne.”

“My mouth is watering.” She picked up an empty plate and got in line. “The house looks wonderful, and so do you. That tux fits you like a glove.”

“I have them specially made.”

“Because you wear them at your nightclub. Yes, I know.” She selected a couple of the tomato tarts and then stepped away from the table. “That huge Happy Birthday sign out front really touched your father. He was tickled to death that you and Peter wanted to throw him this party.”

Jane wasn’t sure where they got the idea that Peter had anything to do with tonight’s celebration. Not that she intended to clarify. “I’m glad. I want this to be a special night for him.”

“He’s got terrific kids, that’s for sure. I know he feels blessed.”

An hour later, as Jane was standing with Chess and Melanie in the backyard, finishing the last bite of a slice of grilled pizza, Cordelia opened the screen door and waved to get her attention. In her orange sequined evening gown, she looked like a giant traffic cone.

“Peter,” she mouthed.

Jane excused herself and joined Cordelia in the kitchen, where she found the conversation much louder and mixed with blats of live music.

Cordelia had surprised everyone by hiring a small orchestra for the occasion, the same group Jane had heard practicing in the background a few days before when they were talking on the phone. A tuba player, an oboist, a flutist, a saxophonist, a trumpet player, two trombonists, and an upright string bass player had set up in the living room and were working their way through everything from classical gavottes to ragtime to klezmer dance tunes to an oddball sort of New Orleans jazz. The group would never have been Jane’s first choice—or any choice at all—and yet they added a definite note of gaiety, if not downright hilarity, to the gathering.

Following Cordelia into the front hall, Jane found Peter hanging Sigrid’s coat up in the front closet. Mia, their eleven-year-old daughter, stood with her arms held stiffly at her sides, her eyes locked on the floor. Sigrid bent down. Talking slowly and deliberately, punctuating her words with hand signs because Mia was deaf, she gave her some last-minute instructions. Mia didn’t smile or look around, just stood still, her expression solemn, too solemn for a child her age. She’d lived in a mixed bag of foster homes for most of her young life. With Peter and Sigrid’s marriage on the rocks because of Peter’s decision to find Mia, the child Sigrid had given up for adoption, it couldn’t be all that much easier for her even now.

Jane hadn’t seen or talked to her brother—or Sigrid, or Mia—since the first week in November, the night of the election, when they’d gathered together with a crowd of staff and supporters in two hotel suites at the Maxfield Plaza in downtown St. Paul to wait for the results.

Mia had shot up at least an inch or two since then. The freckles that spread across her nose and cheeks, once so prominent, had faded. The fact that Jane had missed all these changes stunned her. For the first time it truly penetrated how completely her brother had cut her out of his life. But as soon as the thought engaged her, she realized there was something wrong with it.

Peter wasn’t the only one who had backed away. Jane was as guilty as he was. He’d never prevented her from contacting Mia, from developing a relationship with her. Jane had allowed that to happen all by herself. The problems she had with Peter didn’t need to leak over onto Mia—but they had. Jane had stopped calling or dropping by because she didn’t want to run into her brother. He’d changed—and not for the good. Jane wanted him to see that his actions had consequences, not just for himself, but for others. Every time they got into it, though, he would turn the tables, try to convince her that she was in the wrong, that she was a sorry excuse for a sister, someone who only wanted to blame. Jane figured the truth was probably somewhere in the middle.

Crouching down and holding out her hand, Jane said, “Hi, Mia. Remember me?”

The edges of Mia’s mouth turned up. She inched forward a few paces but continued to keep her distance. “Ha,” she responded. With her platinum hair, blue-gray eyes, and strong, athletic frame, Mia was a mini Sigrid—but a Sigrid without the feisty self-assurance.

“I’m glad you could come.”

She gave a stiff nod.

Sigrid looked pretty much the same as she always did, although her sardonic smile, usually in evidence, was noticeably absent. Peter was the one who had changed the most. His thick brown hair, worn in a defiant buzz cut for over a year, had finally grown out. He wore it pulled back into a short ponytail tied at the nape of his neck with a piece of twine. The scruff was gone as well, and the beard was back. He looked so handsome, more like the brother she remembered. When he turned around and found her a few feet away, he flashed her a brittle smile.

“I didn’t know if you were coming tonight,” said Jane.

“You didn’t?” said Sigrid, placing her hands over Mia’s shoulders. “Peter told me he RSVP’d last week.”

“Never received it,” said Cordelia, the subject of another one of Peter’s strained smiles.

“Hey, don’t gang up on me,” he said. “I thought I’d done it.”

Everyone glanced up as Hattie thumped down the stairs wearing a pair of black satin ballerina slippers several sizes too big for her feet.

On arriving at the house, Cordelia explained to Jane, sotto voce, that Hattie had begged for the shoes, insisting that her feet would get
really
big
really
soon. Tomorrow or the next day, for sure. That since they were invited to a special party, she needed something fancy to match her Ziegfeld Follies hat. Ultimately, Cordelia had relented, partly because she was so amused, but also because she remembered a similar pair of shoes she’d wanted as a little kid, a pair her mom had refused to buy.

Hattie clumped up to Mia. “Hi,” she said. “Wanna play?” Mia was the only other child there. Her sudden appearance must have seemed like manna from heaven.

Peter lifted Hattie into his arms and gave her a kiss. “You remember me, don’t you?”

“Uncle Peter!”

This time his smile was real. “I heard you were back. Welcome home, sweetie.”

“Thank you,” said Hattie, using her best manners. She lifted the hat off of her head and dropped it on top of his.

“Say, Hattie,” said Peter. “You haven’t met my little girl. Her name is Mia. She’s deaf. Do you know what that means?”

Hattie pressed a finger to her chin and shook her head.

“It means she can’t hear. If you talk to her, she can sometimes understand if she’s looking at your mouth. So speak very slowly and clearly to her, okay? Make sure she’s looking at you when you talk.”

Hattie patted his beard. “Okay.”

As soon as he set her down, Hattie tugged on Mia’s hand. “We can draw with chalk on the sidewalk. It’s fun.”

“It’s getting kind of dark,” said Sigrid.

“I’ll turn on the light over the front steps,” offered Cordelia. “Come on, you two, let’s go get the chalk.” Cordelia knew sign language, so she signed to Mia as they walked back through the dining room.

Peter touched the satin lapels on Jane’s tux. “Nice threads.”

“Thanks. Nice headdress.”

He pulled Hattie’s hat off and was about to hand it to her when he thought better of it and put it back on. “Goes perfect with my clothes, right?”

He’d come to the party wearing a purple and gold Vikings football jersey tucked into a pair of worn jeans. He looked like he’d lost weight.

“Very stylish,” said Jane.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Last I saw, he was in the backyard.”

“I gotta go wish him a happy birthday.”

As he waded into the crowd, shaking hands, slapping people on the back, Jane turned to Sigrid, who had moved over to the living room archway to listen to the mini orchestra.

“How are you and Peter doing?” she asked during a lull in the music.

Sigrid folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the arch. “We should probably talk.”

“When?”

“I’ll call you.”

“Is everything okay?”

Sigrid eyed her for a moment. Returning her attention to the band, she said, “Yes. And no.”

“At least tell me
something
.”

“Oh, all right. How’s this for a headline? Peter and Sigrid are back together.”

Jane’s face must have registered surprise, relief, eagerness, disbelief, or all of the above. Whatever Sigrid saw, it was enough to make her sardonic smile return.

“That’s wonderful,” said Jane.

“That’s amore,” Sigrid responded dryly.

*   *   *

“Where are you?” demanded Irina, worry tightening her stomach as she stood in the bathroom of her home, rifling through the medicine cabinet, searching for the bottle of Excedrin.

“At a party,” came Chess’s voice.

She heard music in the background, people talking, having a good time. “How can you be at a party at a time like this?”

“I’m at a friend’s house. She’s letting me stay for a few days.”

“
She
?”

“She’s gay, Irina. It’s her father’s birthday. I had to come.”

She found the Excedrin bottle, tapped a couple into her palm, swallowed them down without water. “You were supposed to call me. I thought we were going to try to get together. I can’t handle this all by myself.”

“But if someone’s watching you—or me—it’s not safe.”

“I don’t care. When I got home tonight, Steve was packing. The people he’s hoping to work for called him, asked him to drive back down to Rochester. He’ll be gone overnight. That means I’m home alone. What if something—” She stopped. She couldn’t go there. “You’ve got to come stay with me. It’s starting to get dark. The house, it’s so big, and I hear noises.”

“What sort of noises?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Creaks. Scary sounds.”

“Turn on some music.”

Was he nuts? “It has to be quiet so I can hear if someone’s trying to break in.”

“No one will break in, Irina. You’ll be fine.”

She sank down on the edge of the bathtub. “You don’t know that. Why are you treating this so lightly?”

“I hardly view our problems as light.”

“Two people have been murdered because of us. I’m not sure I can live with that.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I hear you. I’m getting cold feet, too. Maybe we should call it off. Money doesn’t mean much if we’re dead. As it is now, we’re sitting ducks. The safest thing to do would be for me to just take the bull and go.”