The Old Deep and Dark (13 page)

“Well, for one thing, I don't believe in fate, in the classical sense of predetermination. Some might say that temperament, our inborn gifts, shape who we become. I would agree with that—to the extent that we act on those gifts. I don't view the world as a conflict between good and evil, in the metaphysical sense. People aren't black and white. Marriage is always a negotiation. Humans make mistakes, and the reasons are complex. As for those who feel more deeply—and I do think that's a viable category—I think it can be both a gift and a curse. And finally, do humans ever really change? Archibald, if I didn't believe change was possible, I would never have devoted my life to psychotherapy. Of course we can change.”

“For good or ill.”

“Yes, either way I suppose.”

Archibald reached into his pocket and removed a coat button, the one Beverly had placed in his hand before he left the lake house. He tried to recall the words from the first chapter of Genesis:
The woman … she did give me from the tree and I did eat.
Beverly had explained what needed to happen, and that he was the only one who could do it. Brushing his thumb across the smooth surface, he whispered to himself.

“I'm sorry,” said Stratton. “I didn't catch that.”

“I said, ‘cleverness and stupidity.'”

“Ah, yes. Your two behavioral poles. While I'm not sure that's an entirely accurate assessment, let me make a guess. You think what you're about to do is … stupid. That it lacks moral intelligence.”

“I guess we'll know tomorrow,” said Archibald. He stood and reached for his coat.

“You're leaving?”

“You've helped me, Doctor. And now, I've got somewhere I need to be.”

 

15

Late on Monday morning, Jane stopped by the theater to speak with Cordelia. Parking on the street, she entered under the marquee and took one of the elevators up to the second floor. Since her theatrical friend rarely watched or listened to the local news, there was a better than even chance she hadn't heard about Jordan Deere's murder. Jane wanted to break the news to her in person.

Nobody, it appeared, was manning the reception desk. Jane walked right through into Cordelia's office. The half-eaten Danish suggested that her friend was around somewhere. Feeling her cell phone rumble, she saw that she had a text from Avi. She sat down behind the desk, took a bite of the Danish, and read:

More revisions from Elaine Ducasse this AM. Makes me wonder if I can put 2 sentences together without help. Think I should go back to bartending. Or stripping. What if this is another epic fail? What if she cancels my contract?

Like most writers, Avi struggled with self-doubt. But in her case, she also wrestled with what Jane thought was clinical depression. Jane hadn't realized it at first, but over the past year, she'd watched Avi sleep entire weeks away. At night, she drank. Since sleep and booze weren't good solutions, Jane had suggested that she see a doctor or find a therapist. Jane did her best to help Avi through her bouts of misery. She'd cook special meals, things she knew Avi loved. Avi's father had read bedtime stories to her as a child and often, crawling under the covers, listening to Jane read, was the only thing that could calm her down.

Another rumble—another message from Avi.

Are you pissed at me?

Looking up, Jane's first thought was … maybe. She hadn't texted Avi in a couple of days, which no doubt meant something. She slipped the phone back into her pocket. On her way out of the office, she found a workman in the hallway and asked if he'd seen Cordelia.

“She's in the main stairwell.” He pointed to an arched doorway.

“Doing what?”

“Sitting on the steps.”

“Just sitting?”

“Well, she's drinking from a juice box, if that's of any interest.”

She thanked him. Halfway to the third floor, she found Cordelia, dressed all in black leather, eyes tightly shut, seated on the stairs. And she did indeed have a juice box in her hand.

“Who comes?” she intoned without opening her eyes.

“'Tis Jane, good madam.”

“Ah, my lady. God's good greetings upon you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Listening.”

“To what?”

“Come sit thee next to me. Open your ears.”

Jane hunkered down on the cold stone. After listening for nearly a minute and hearing nothing but the sound of hammers coming from inside the auditorium, she said, “Can we drop the Shakespearean English? You can maintain it forever. I've about reached my limit.”

“Shhh,” she said, raising a finger to her lips. “Don't you hear them?”

“Hear who?”

“Gilbert and Hilda. Granted, their voices are faint—kind of echoy and tinny. They're fighting. Something about a dress Hilda wants to wear to the opening.”

“Seriously?
Your
opening?”

“It started in my office. One of them opened a window, then slammed it shut. Got my attention right away.”

“That actually happened?”

“What's the worst one ghost can do to another? Murder is obviously off the table.”

“Cordelia, you have to listen to me. I've got some bad news.”

She opened one eye. “Want a sip of juice?”

“No thanks.”

“It's full of nutrition.”

“Only in the vaguest sense.”

“What's the news?”

“It's about Jordan Deere.”

The other eye opened. “What about him?”

Jane explained what she knew, trying to break it as gently as she could.

Through shocked tears, Cordelia demanded to know more. “You should have called me right away. Hattie and I would have driven out to the lake house to hold Kit's hand.”

“I doubt very much that the police would have let you in.”

“I need details, Janey. Is Kit okay? Booker? Chloe?”

Jane unsnapped her old varsity jacket. “Everyone's taking it very hard, as you can imagine. As far as I know, the police didn't find anything useful at the scene. No footprints. No bullet casings. No weapon. They've got very little to go on. Except for one thing: they carted out Jordan's computer. Seemed to think they'd hit the jackpot.”

“You were there?”

“Kit asked Dad to come out to the house.” She took a few minutes to explain why she'd gone along with him.

Cordelia narrowed her eyes. “I hope your father realizes that
moi
has always been the deciding factor in your sleuthing successes. You're the brawn, I'm the brains.”

Jane struggled not to roll her eyes, though they did tilt just a bit. “May I point out that I was the one who did all the work to become a licensed investigator?”

“True. But I'm the one who provided the psychic support. Lit the candles and burned the sage incense. And then I did that tarot reading for you and told you you'd pass.”

There was no use arguing. In truth, Cordelia had been indispensable on more than one occasion.

“Tell me the truth: Do the police think someone in the family is responsible?”

“I can't answer that.”

“But it's possible.”

Jane nodded.

“So where do we start? You
have
to let me help. Those people are my friends.”

Actually, Jane had already given that some thought. “Maybe you could spend an evening with Kit—at the summerhouse. Talk to Chloe and Booker, too.”

“You can't leave Beverly out of the equation. She's had a huge crush on Kit for years. And Tommy Prior, Jordan's manager. He's always been this buttoned-up, controlled, meticulous kind of man, but a couple of summers ago, I started to notice a change in him—and not for the better.”

“Use all your wiles, okay,” said Jane. “But be discreet. Don't hammer them with questions. Just be a willing ear. Maybe I shouldn't say this, but it feels like the whole lot of them are playing some sort of game.”

“Explain.”

Jane hesitated. “Since I'm working for my dad's law firm, I have to sign a confidentiality agreement. This is serious, Cordelia. It's not just you and me having ourselves an adventure anymore. I could be prosecuted if Kit finds out I've shared this information with you. Do you swear to keep it just between us?”

“Absolutely. Scout's honor.”

“The day before Jordan died, he asked Kit for a divorce.”

“Heavens!” Her hand flew to her chest.

“That's what she wanted to talk to my father about when she met with him at your house. But yesterday, when the detective in charge of the case—his name is Neil DePetro—asked her about her relationship with her husband, she said it was solid. No problems at all.”

“She lied?”

“With perfect composure. She's quite an actress.”

“One of the best. What else?”

“When DePetro called everyone together for an initial conversation, nobody in the room mentioned the rather significant fact that Jordan had left the house early Saturday evening—in a speedboat—and had never come back.”

“Where did he go?”

“They claim they don't know.”

“So let me get this straight,” said Cordelia, leaning forward and folding her hands in a show of patience—or impatience. “Jordan spent Saturday night … somewhere. A place he could get to by boat. He left from that ‘somewhere' to go running yesterday morning. Assuming he didn't leave his house on Saturday wearing running clothes or athletic shoes, he must have changed somewhere along the way. And if he left in a boat, how did he get to the park?”

“All good questions,” said Jane.

Cordelia sat up straight. “Sounds like a job for Cordelia M. Thorn.”

“It does, doesn't it.”

Puffing out her chest, Cordelia continued, sotto voce, “You're not the only one with news. I got a call from a Minneapolis cold case detective right after I arrived this morning. Seems they caught a break. Major progress has been made on the skeleton we found behind the wall. Red Clemens tells me my staff and all the workmen were buzzing about it.”

“I'll bet,” said Jane.

“So,” said Cordelia, leaning close. “Here's what I know.”

*   *   *

Archibald carried a notebook with him as he moved in and out of the rooms in the theater basement. The place was a veritable treasure trove of old theater props and wardrobe memorabilia, some of it dating back to the early part of the last century. Cordelia needed to mine the wares on offer down here, he mused, lifting a ray gun off a pile of rope. Ray guns were popular in the fifties. He'd seen a few before, though none as elaborate as this one. He'd found one for sale on eBay a few years back. He shouldn't have been surprised. What wasn't for sale on eBay? “Love, integrity, friendship,” he muttered to himself.

What Archibald needed was to be engaged in some sort of busywork this morning, something to take his mind off the fateful decision he'd made in the middle of the night. Sifting through a box of costume jewelry, he found a gold signet ring. When he moved it closer to the light, the top flipped up, revealing a space for a pill—or for poison. The ring had the look of real gold. “Can't be real,” he mumbled. Then again. He dropped it into his pocket.

On a whim, he decided to check out the speakeasy. As he approached the door, he found strips of yellow and black crime scene tape stretched across it. The lower section had been ripped away. Ducking down, he came up on the other side and switched on the wrought-iron chandeliers. He was startled to find a man sitting alone at the bar. Because he was dressed in old jeans, a chambray shirt, and rough boots, Archibald pegged him as one of the workmen. “I'm sorry,” he said, coming to a full stop. “I didn't realize anyone was in here.” Odd that the guy had been sitting in the dark.

The man turned. “Mr. Van Arnam? My God, it's been years. Red Clemens,” he said, moving off the stool. “Do you remember me?”

Archibald recalled the name, though he couldn't place the face. And then it dawned on him. “You're the maintenance man. You're … still here?”

“I asked Cordelia Thorn to hire me back.”

He didn't remember much about the guy, except for one thing: Years ago, Archibald had caught him listening outside one of the dressing room doors.

“Got my old office back,” continued Red. “Feels like old times.”

“I'll bet.”

“Never figured I'd run into you again, but hey, since I have, I should tell you how much I enjoyed your newest book. The one on Fort Snelling.”

“You read that?” Oops, thought Archibald. Was that an elitist comment? Obviously the man could read. Archibald only meant that it didn't seem like the kind of book a janitor would be interested in.

“Are you working on something new?” asked Red.

“Actually, I am. A history of the micro cultures in Minnesota.”

“Oh, sure. Like that book,
American Nations.
Loved his perspective. Did you read it? The author divides the U.S. into eleven different cultural groups.”

“You read that, too?” As Archibald stepped up to the bar, his eyes drifted to a hole in the wall behind the bar. “What's that?”

Red eased back onto his seat. “Cordelia and that friend of hers. Lawless.” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “Now what the heck is her first name?”

“Jane.”

“Yeah, yeah. Jane. They noticed that someone had broken through part of the wall, then bricked it up. They asked me to break it down so they could see what was behind it. Turns out, it was a body. Or, more precisely, a skeleton.”

Archibald pulled out one of the stools, brushed the dust off and sat down. “Tell me more.”

“Well, the skull had a bullet hole smack in the center of the forehead.”

“How grotesque.”

“Yeah. Gave me the willies.”

“Did you call the police?”