The Cruel Ever After (7 page)

Mornings at the gallery were for light dusting, setting up the cash register, sorting the mail, checking e-mail, and finally opening the double front doors to the public at eleven. It was already after that. Instead of charging in, Irina thought it best to walk along the west side of the building to the front, scanning the windows for anything amiss. After checking the east side, she paused for a few seconds at the base of the wide front steps and looked in through the bay window. All the track lights were on. Something wasn’t adding up. Her mother always turned off the track lighting when she closed the gallery for the night.

Turning to the street, Irina shielded her eyes from the sun and scanned the parked cars. She spotted her mother’s pearl gray Audi Roadster halfway down the block. Feeling relieved that her mom had already arrived, she headed back to the rear of the house and let herself in. Her mother was probably fuming. Arriving late was a cardinal sin in her lexicon of business blunders.

Steeling herself for an argument, Irina walked into the main showroom but stopped under the arched doorway, her hand flying to her mouth to cover a gasp.

The glass counters had all been opened, the contents scattered around on the floor. Nothing, not a single relic, was where it should be. Masks had been torn down from the walls. Standing shelves had been knocked over, some of the ancient glass artifacts broken into a million little pieces on the polished wood floors. The doors to three smaller climate-controlled galleries were open, allowing Irina a full view of the destruction.

Rushing up the back stairs, she entered the second-floor hallway, her gaze traveling swiftly to the open doorway into the living room.

“Mom?” she called. “Are you here? Are you okay?”

The second floor had been ransacked, just like the first. The backs and seats of all the antique couches and chairs had been ripped open, with big puffs of stuffing scattered virtually everywhere. All the cupboards in the kitchen were open, their contents dumped.

Rushing through the chaos into her mother’s office, Irina let out a scream.

Her mother was slumped face-first onto her desk. Under the chair was a thick pool of sticky dark red blood. Irina pressed the back of her fingers to her mom’s cheek and was so startled by how cold the skin felt that she withdrew her hand as if she’d been burned. She moved around behind the chair, grabbed her mom by her shoulders, and eased her back. The front of her white angora sweater was stained the same dark red as the floor. Irina stood very still, feeling another scream well up inside her.

Do something,
she ordered, backing up, horrified at the revulsion she felt at being in the same room with a dead body. It was her mother’s body. She shouldn’t feel that way.

She wanted to run, to breathe fresh air, to wipe the sickening image from her mind. Instead, she dove for the corner of the room and vomited. Shivering violently, she edged over to the phone, picked it up, and started to tap in 911.

“No,” she whispered, letting the phone drop back on the desk. She had to think this through.

*   *   *

Across the river in Minneapolis, Chess paced under the tower. He couldn’t get one of the comments the blackmailer had made out of his
mind. You can’t just walk away from a m
urder. Did that mean the blackmailer had seen him walk away from Dial’s house? Could Ed be the neighbor, the chatty bald guy who’d called to him as he was leaving? Had he seen Chess and Dial arrive the evening before? Maybe he heard something—a noise, an argument, a cry in the night—and decided to take a look in one of the windows to see what was going on. A neighbor might have a key.

Chess checked his watch. It was eleven fifteen. Whoever this asshole was, he was late. Feeling frustrated, he kicked a stone down the hill, scanning the park for anyone who might be walking toward the tower. With the exception of a mother and her two kids sitting in the grass on a blanket, and a man seated on a bench eating a fast-food burger, the park was deserted.

“So how long am I supposed to wait?” he muttered. As he slid the cheap cell phone out of his pocket, it began to vibrate.

“Hello?” he said, stepping into the shade.

“I can’t come,” said the blackmailer’s voice. “We’ll have to reschedule.” Without waiting for a response, he hung up.

“Wait. Hello? Hello?” Chess flipped the phone closed. What the hell? Before he could come to a decision on what to do next, his own cell rang.

“Yeah?” he said, unable, or more likely unwilling, to keep the aggravation out of his voice.

“Chess? Is that you?”

It was Irina. She sounded upset. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Mom. She’s dead. You’ve got to help me. You have to come over here.”

“Where are you?”

“The gallery. Mom’s office. Someone
murdered
her.”

His mind began to spin. “God, that’s … God.” He swallowed back his shock. “You need to stay calm. Can you do that for me?”

“I think so.”

“Have you checked the entire gallery? Are you alone?”

“I never thought of that,” she said, her voice rising. “What if the killer is still in the building?”

“Can you lock your mom’s office door?” He heard it slam shut, then the sound of a bolt being thrown.

“It’s locked.”

“This is a more difficult question. Have you touched the—I mean, your mother? Is her skin cold?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice sounding strangled.

“That probably means whoever did this to her is long gone. Have you called the police?”

“Not yet.”

“Perfect. Just stay put. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Hurry.”

*   *   *

Chess bounded up the steps to the double front doors, relieved to find them open. As soon as he was inside, he turned and locked the doors behind him.

He’d only been upstairs once. Slicing his way through the shambles of the once elegant gallery, he bolted to the back stairway and took the steps two at a time.

“Chess, is that you?” came Irina’s frantic voice through the closed office door.

“I’m here.”

A second later, Irina emerged looking deathly white. She fell into his arms. “I thought you were never going to get here.”

He held her, feeling her body shiver through her light cotton dress. “I need to see your mom.”

She seemed grateful as she took his hand and led him into the office. Morgana’s body, her eyes closed, the front of her fuzzy sweater gummy with blood, sat hunched against the back of her chair, her head lolling to one side. “Is this the way you found her?”

“No. She was slumped across the desk.”

Chess took hold of Morgana’s shoulders and eased her back down. “It looks like a gunshot. You saw the entrance wound, right?”

She gave a stiff nod.

“The front doors were open.”

“They were?”

He looked around for a bullet casing but couldn’t find one. The shooter could have used a revolver, or maybe he was just careful. Chess gave himself a minute to think it through. “The guy must have been standing in front of the desk. What’s this?” He nodded to a file folder open on the desk. “Looks like a trust agreement. You know anything about that?”

“She did it years ago. She and her lawyer go over it every spring. If there are any changes in the documents, she talks to me about them, but there hardly ever are any. It’s just a formality.”

He crossed back to the door, staring into the living room. “What are these people looking for?”

“You think it’s the bull?”

He didn’t reply. Walking back out into the front room, he picked up a cushion and righted a chair. Irina stood in the doorway and watched.

“We’re not safe,” she said.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Your mother was shot. Dial was stabbed.”

“So what? They’re both dead.”

“It might mean the murders weren’t related.”

“But we don’t know that.”

“No, we don’t. Whatever is going on here, we need to stay focused on getting rid of that statue. Listen.” He moved back to the doorway and looked her square in the eyes. “There are a lot of artifacts from the Baghdad Museum floating around the black market—I’ve bought and sold my share—but nothing as big or as high profile as the winged bull. If someone
is
on our trail, that’s the reason. We have to work quietly and quickly. Are you with me?”

Her eyes looked glazed, off center. She gave a weak nod.

“You’ve got to be sure. We don’t have time to waste, Irina. We act decisively or we call it off.”

“I’m in, Chess. All the way.”

“You’ve got it hidden away?”

“It’s safe.”

He kissed her with a passion he didn’t feel. She was far more skittish than she’d been when they’d first discussed the sale of the bull in Istanbul last August. She’d turned into a woman who had to be coaxed along, handled with care. If she’d shown that sort of temperament earlier, he never would have cut her in. He’d been in a bind, though. He needed her, needed her connections. Greed motivated her, but it wasn’t her bottom line. She tried to hide it, but after the buy was made, Chess was the prize she wanted. That meant he had to keep her happy until the bull was safely disposed of and the money was in the bank.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said, his arms encircling her, his fingers kneading the muscles in her neck.

She burst into tears. “I feel so guilty,” she said, choking on her sobs. “My mom is dead and it’s all because of me.”

“We don’t know that.” He held her tighter. “You have to be strong, have to think of the future.” He stroked her wispy blond hair, kissed her forehead. “You can be strong, can’t you?”

She backed up and brushed the tears off her cheeks.

“It’s time to call 911. Can I get you anything first? A glass of water?” He eased her down onto a chair, then leaned over her.

“Do you love me, Chess?”

He crouched down, took her hand in his, and pressed it to his chest. “With all my heart.”

8

“He’s back,” said Jane as she stood at the head of the wooden stairs leading down to the lake in front of her restaurant, holding her cell phone to her ear. The lunch rush was over, so she was taking a break.

“Who’s back?” asked Cordelia. She sounded impatient.

In the background, Jane could hear trombones. “Is the Allen Grimby doing an adaptation of
The Music Man
?”

“I can’t hear you.”

“ ‘Seventy-six Trombones’?”

“Nah, I think there are only two. And a tuba, a flute, and an oboe.”

“Kind of an unusual band.”

“What?”

“Can you go into another room or something?”

A door slammed.

“There, that’s better,” said Cordelia. “Now,
who’s
back?”

“That itinerant preacher. The one dressed in the monk’s cowl.”

“Well, yippy freakin’ skippy. It’s really nice of you to keep me updated on the comings and goings of Friar Tuck, but trust me, it’s not necessary.”

“Chess stayed at my house last night.”

“He did? Why?”

“He was mugged.”

“Heavens.”

“I’ll tell you about it when we have more time.”

“Did you manage to get all the deliciously licentious details of his love life?”

“A little more than we got at lunch.”

“Excellent, Janey. Just excellent. Everything ready for the party tomorrow night?”

The catering wing of Jane’s two restaurants was taking care of the food. Her house had undergone a thorough cleaning. The champagne was already chilling. Because of her father’s heart scare last year, this birthday felt like a gift. She wanted to do it up right. “How many RSVPs have come back?”

“Forty-nine. Most are couples, so plan on around a hundred. If
moi
had been in charge, we would have needed to rent the Metrodome.”

Thirty yards away, the preacher was reading from what looked like a personal journal. The crowd wasn’t large, maybe a dozen people, but they seemed attentive. His voice was deep, and it carried well.

“What are you wearing?” asked Cordelia.

A question like that usually came with heavy breathing. “Right now?”

“Earth to Jane. No, dingbat, at the party.”

“Oh. A tux and a tiara.”

“Entirely brilliant. I believe I said something in the invitation about dress being optional, though essential. Oh, drat. The tuba player is throwing a hissy fit. I’ve gotta go. Later.”

Jane trotted down the steps to the footpath, curious what the preacher could be saying. Keeping her distance from the crowd, she sat down cross-legged in the grass, her back against a sturdy elm.

The preacher lifted his head and made eye contact with each member of his audience. “ ‘Blessed is the man who has suffered and found life. Jesus said, What you look forward to has already come, but you do not recognize it. Blessed are the solitary and elect, for you will find the kingdom. For you are from it, and to it you will return.’ ”

He turned a page. “ ‘Jesus said to them, When you make the two one, and when you make the inside like the outside and the outside like the inside, and the above like the below, and when you make the male and the female one and the same, so that the male will not be male and the female not be female; and when you fashion eyes in place of an eye, and a hand in place of a hand, and a foot in place of a foot, and a likeness in place of a likeness; then you will enter the kingdom.’ ”

“That’s not in the Bible,” shouted a gray-haired man sitting astride a dirt bike.

“No?” said the preacher.

“Not in any Bible I’ve ever seen.”

He closed the book and held it down at his side. “Let me ask everyone a question. How many of you have read
The Da Vinci Code
?”

Almost everyone raised a hand.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me. Now, how many of you have read the Bible? Not just passages but cover to cover.”

One woman raised a hand.

“I find that fascinating, don’t you?”

“
The Da Vinci Code
had a better plot,” called a teenaged girl.

A few people laughed.

The gray-haired man shot the girl an angry look.

“How many of you believe in God?” asked the preacher.