The Old Deep and Dark (16 page)

The receptionist tapped the computer keyboard in front of her, checked the monitor. “It's all been handled. Looks like he put it on his credit card.”

“He did? I mean, good. That's good.”

“Anything else I can help you with?”

So Booker's theory had been correct. His dad was the “friend” who'd booked Erin's stay at the club. Had she called him or had he called her? That begged the question about why she was in town. She'd never really said. Was it possible that Erin and his father had stayed in touch all these years? Or had she called out of the blue to ask for the favor because she'd once been close to Chloe? Seemed like a stretch. It was even more of a stretch to think Erin's reaction to his father's death was simply because he'd paid for a room at the Heidelberg Club.

The receptionist's expression turned sad again. “It's such a shock. Your father, I mean.”

“It's a shock, all right,” said Booker. After reading his dad's manuscript, he'd gotten used to the idea that his old man had lied to him all of his life. The more he thought about those secrets, the more it all seemed kind of silly. But this? This was fascinating. You devious old goat, he thought, smiling to himself. What the hell were you up to?

*   *   *

Striding up the concrete jetty into the Heidelberg marina, Jane felt lost in an alternate universe—either that, or at a huge boat expo. She wasn't poor, by anyone's standards, but the people who docked their sport yachts, cruisers, and sailboats in this marina were in a different class altogether. Must be nice to own one of these monsters, she thought, knowing each cost more than most people's homes.

Finding slip 127 was easy enough. The crisscrossed yellow police tape had been visible from her car, even before she walked out to take a closer look. The boat itself was gone, as was any indication of police activity—except for the tape.

“They hauled it away about an hour ago,” said a man sitting on a chair bolted to the aft portion of his yacht. He was attempting to untangle a fishing line on one of the dozen or so rods leaning against the rail.

Shading her eyes from the sun, Jane asked, “Did you know the man who docked his boat in that slip?”

“Deere? Not well. My wife has a bunch of his CDs, thought he was the sexiest man alive—well, except for me, of course.” He winked. “Awful what happened to him.”

“Did the police talk to you about it?”

“Nope. As I was heading in, they were leaving.”

Jane stepped a few paces closer. “Deere left his boat here on Saturday evening. We're trying to figure out where he spent the night.”

“
We?
You a cop?”

“I'm private, working for Kit Deere's lawyer.”

“Ah.” He yanked on the knotted fishing line, looking frustrated. “Deere was around quite a bit this summer. Most times I'd see him with his golf bag heading up to the clubhouse.”

“Don't suppose you saw him on Saturday night.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. No golf clubs that night. He tied off his boat, then waited in the parking lot until a car picked him up.”

“Can you describe the car?”

He shrugged. “Black. Everything's either black or white these days. What happened to color? Yellow. Green. Blue. Anyway, don't quote me, but I think it was an Audi. Newer model.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?”

“Sorry.” He pointed to the top of a utility pole. “But I'll bet that thing did.”

Jane turned to find a security camera. She wondered if the police had noticed it. It didn't seem like something DePetro would miss. “Did you ever see Deere with anyone? A friend. Man? Woman?”

“He ate at the Rhineland Grill on occasion. I'm afraid I never took much notice of who he was with.” Instead of continuing to try to untangle the knot, the man took out a nail clipper and cut it off. After reattaching the hook, he secured it to the cork at the bottom of the pole and stood up. “Wish I could be more help.”

“No, this is all good,” said Jane. She handed over one of her cards. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

“Will do,” said the man, pocketing the card. “Somebody needs to fry for what happened to that poor guy. I hope you find the bastard. Or, you never know. I suppose it could be a woman.”

*   *   *

“I wondered where you'd hidden that,” said Kit, leaning her shoulder against the edge of the garage. “Since the police didn't find it, I figured you'd stashed it somewhere.”

Beverly was down on all fours, a pile of dirt on either side of a small, deep hole. She'd just removed a metal box and was brushing clumped soil off the top. “You shouldn't sneak up on people.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” said Kit.

Beverly gave a bitter grunt, sitting down cross-legged in the grass and pulling the box toward her. She did it the way she did everything, aggressively and impatiently. Opening the top, she removed a terry cloth towel wrapped around a 9mm Smith & Wesson.

“Why'd you bring that along?”

“Protection.”

“Who from?”

Beverly shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

“The police could come back. Maybe you should leave it buried.”

“I need to get rid of it.”

“Your father's gun? You said it meant the world to you when he gave it to you.”

Beverly shook her head. “This is a nightmare.”

Kit was learning firsthand about nightmares—the waking kind. She'd been imprisoned inside one ever since Jordan had asked for a divorce. Those few words had quite literally turned her life upside down. Her focus at the moment was simply hanging on. She had to stay strong, to protect her children and her husband's legacy. When she'd glanced at herself in the mirror this morning, an old woman had stared back at her. How could that be? Where had the time gone?

“Come sit down,” said Beverly, holding out her hand. “Misery loves company.”

Glad that she'd thought to change into a pair of jeans and a sweater for her walk down to the beach, Kit joined her on the dying grass.

“Did Archie finally leave?” asked Beverly.

“Poor man. All he wants to do is help.”

“He's driving everyone crazy.”

“I know.”

“Including me.”

Hands clasped around her knees, Kit said, “You know, years ago, I thought maybe the two of you—”

“No way,” said Beverly. “Not my type.”

“No.” She knew that. Why had she said it? Maybe it was habit. But then, for Kit, pretending wasn't just habit, it was her life. “I need to say something.”

“No. You don't.”

Why did one moment of truth always necessitate another? “I don't know what I'd do without you. Ever since I can remember, you've been the rock at the center of my life.”

Beverly wrapped the gun up and placed it back into the metal box.

“You know I love you.”

“Sure.”

Except, not the way you want, thought Kit. “Listen to me.”

Beverly started to get up. “What should we have for dinner? I'll run up to the grocery store this afternoon. I could make a big pot of chili, or we could have—”

“Sit down. I don't want to talk about dinner. I want to talk about us.”

“Nothing to say that hasn't been said.”

Kit slipped her hand around Beverly's. “I know … you have … feelings for me. Feelings I've never been able to reciprocate. The only way I could deal with it and not lose you—and that was my greatest fear—was by pretending I didn't notice. By ignoring the elephant in the room. You have no idea how much I wish I could be the way you want me to be.”

“Just stop, okay?”

“No. Now that it's out there on the table, you have to let me finish. I've taken from you and given very little in return.”

“Not true. You've shared your life with me. Given me a job. A home. A family.”

“But not what you really wanted.”

Beverly closed the lid on the box. “Not everyone wants to jump your bones,” she said, her voice full of bitterness. She seemed to regret the words the moment they left her mouth.

“It's just … I'm not attracted to women. I've thought about it, but it's not me.”

“I get it, Kit. You don't need to draw me a picture.”

“
Do
you get it? This has been hard for me, too. I owe you so much.”

“Fine. You've acknowledged the elephant. Let's move on.”

For years, Beverly had been a valued partner in crime. She'd known, and probably loathed, some of the men Kit had dated, and yet she'd helped her keep many of those assignations and long-term affairs a secret. How hard it must have been for her to watch Kit rushing off, in the flush of some silly new infatuation, leaving her behind to take care of business.

And that brought Kit back to the elephant. Had acknowledging Beverly's feelings been a mistake? Watching her brush dirt back into the hole and pack it down with her hands, she feared that the uninvited pachyderm wasn't merely some enormous unwanted visitor. It was a dangerous, mercurial, beast. Once acknowledged, given its due, but still shown the door, it could easily trample all Kit's delicately balanced plans on its way out.

*   *   *

As Cordelia was making a hasty exit from her theater office that afternoon, on her way to a meeting at the McKnight Foundation, she nearly trampled a woman who was coming into the main office from the hallway. “Oh, sorry,” she said, noticing that the woman was teary eyed and unsteady on her feet. Helping her over to a chair, she asked, “Can I get you a glass of water?”

“I … I'm looking for Cordelia Thorn.”

“That would be me.”

The fifty-something woman had a strong, likable face, but seemed uncertain, disoriented, as if she were moving through a dream world.

“I was told you could show me … the hole in the wall. The man buried behind it, William Edward Chapman—he was my husband.”

Now it was Cordelia's turn to need a chair. The police officer she'd spoken to never mentioned a wife. Just a sister.

“I'm Candice. Used to be Candice Chapman, but now it's Candice Johnson. I remarried. I've had a good life. Can't complain. Three wonderful children. For a long time I was angry at him. The rest of the family thought something terrible had happened, but me, I was sure he'd run off.”

“That's—”

“I hated him for a long time. Everyone assumed we were happily married. Eddy—that's what I called him—was on the fast track as a banker, just like his dad. We lived in Bloomington. Nice house. Married six years. One morning he left for work and never came home.”

“How did—

“I guess his family was right all along. He didn't just take off on me—on his entire life. The thing is, I knew he wasn't happy. Not with his job, and not with me. I don't think we would have made it. I wanted children. He didn't.”

“Not a—”

“No, not a good thing. It's silly, isn't it? That two people don't discuss something that important before they tie the knot. The police worked the case for months, but never did find out what happened. His parents hired a private investigator to continue the search. I thought it was a waste of time and money. At least on that one, I was right. The man's investigation never went anywhere.”

The woman obviously needed to tell her story so badly that she barely took a breath. Cordelia decided to just sit back and listen. She couldn't seem to interject a thought or a question no matter how hard she tried.

“Back during the initial investigation, the police kept asking questions about Eddy's secrets—if he was into drugs, or gambling, or dating prostitutes. I mean, honestly. The man was pure Sammy Cream Cheese. He didn't drink. Didn't smoke. Was in a bowling league. He didn't even swear.” She hesitated. “Then again—”

Cordelia lifted her eyebrows encouragingly.

“I could be wrong, but I think he was cheating on me. A few months before he disappeared, he started dressing nicer. Got his hair styled. Took off a few pounds. Not that he was fat. Eddy was a big, good-looking guy. He always could turn a woman's head. He promised me he'd be faithful, that he wouldn't be like his dad. But you know what men are like.” She waited for Cordelia to nod. “Yeah, easy to promise, hard to follow through. The thing is, if we'd stayed together, we would have made each other miserable. Both of us would have eventually felt trapped. But when the police came by the house to give me the news, when I learned that Eddy's body had been found—” She took a breath, held it, then slowly let it out. “I could hardly believe what they were telling me. Eddy was murdered? My Eddy? His body stuffed behind a wall in the basement of some nameless, crumbling old building in downtown Minneapolis?”

“It's a theater. It's not crumbling.”

“Who would want to hurt him? I kept asking myself that. And then I thought—”

“What? What?”

“Well, I mean,
you
think about it. What if the woman he was seeing was married? If her husband was the jealous type, if he owned a gun and was mad enough…” Her voice trailed off.

“Murdered by a jealous husband?”

“The oldest story in the book.”

“But why bury him here? Was Eddy a theater lover?”

“We saw a few plays together before we were married. None after.”

“Did he have ties to this building?”

“To the best of my knowledge, no.”

“So why was he buried
here
?” asked Cordelia, musing out loud.

“I did love him,” said Candice, sniffing into her tissue. “I never really mourned him because I was so angry. Now … everything's changed. I feel awful.”

“You mustn't.” Cordelia patted the woman's knee.

“To mourn properly, I need to see the hole. Will you take me?”