The Old Deep and Dark (30 page)

“You know, I think this
is
a cookie kind of conversation,” said Cordelia, snatching another Russian tea cake, this time openly, and taking a defiant bite.

“Tell me,” said Jane. “Other than Kit, is there anyone else in the family you think could be responsible?”

“Beverly Elliot,” he said without hesitation. “Jordan made it clear that Beverly never liked him. I don't honestly think it was Jordan she disliked as much as it was the fact that Kit would never even consider her as a possible lover and life partner. Believe me, I understand those feelings. I was in love with my best friend in high school. I knew he was completely oblivious to how I felt, and it hurt like hell. Whoever Kit's husband was would have been a target of Beverly's hostility.”

“You think she hated him enough to murder him?”

“Let me clarify: I don't think she would have committed murder simply because she hated Jordan, but more specifically because of what he was about to do to Kit. From what I understand, she's always been fiercely loyal to Kit, and I also believe, deeply in love with her. Apparently Kit has amazing charisma, or charm, or whatever you want to call it. At heart, I believe she's shown herself to be a good, generous, warmhearted woman. But she can also be selfish and imperious.”

“Nothing wrong with imperious,” mumbled Cordelia.

“I think Beverly, if she is guilty,” continued Woodson, “might have been trying to prevent what she considered a greater tragedy than Jordan's death.”

“Last Saturday night,” said Jane. “The night Jordan left his house and didn't return. Can I assume he stayed with you?”

“Yes, he did.”

“You picked him up from the Heidelberg marina?”

“That's right. I live near there.”

“Your car is black? An Audi?”

“A black Lexus. Boy, you've done your homework.”

“Can I also assume that Jordan kept some clothes at your house? That's why he had on different clothing on Sunday morning.”

He nodded.

“So, how did that work? Did he take your car to Bayview Park?”

“No, I dropped him off. He said to give him an hour, that he'd meet me back in the parking lot. I drove into town, did some errands. By the time I got back, the lot was filled with police cars and medical vans. They weren't letting anyone in or out. I asked one of the officers what was going on, but he didn't have any information. I couldn't find Jordan anywhere and I started to get this sick feeling in my stomach. I waited around until the police began directing traffic away from the site, so I was forced to leave. I called his cell over and over, but never got him. I assumed he'd left the park and somehow made his way back to his house, that he'd been swallowed up by his family problems and couldn't find a moment to get away to call me. It wasn't like him, but it was the only explanation I could come up with. That evening, when I was listening to the local TV news, I found out what happened.”

“How awful for you,” said Cordelia.

Woodson swallowed hard.

“Are you up for one final question?” asked Jane.

“Sure.”

“Before Jordan's death, did he receive any notes, possibly on typing paper, with the letters of his name—or part of his name—printed in the center?”

“How could you possibly know that?” he asked, looking stunned. “Yes, he did. Every few days. And with each note he received, one more letter was missing. There was always a little black crow drawn at the bottom. Jordan hated crows. Or, more accurately, I think he was terrified of them.”

“Why?” asked Cordelia.

“He told me that when he was a kid, he was outside playing one afternoon when several crows started dive-bombing him. They flew at him and flew at him, pecking and cawing and flapping. He has a scar, right next to his eye, where one of the beaks connected with his face. Later in life, he said he assumed that a crow baby was probably on the ground and that they were trying to protect it, trying to chase him off. But that attack made a big impression on a small boy.”

“Heavens,” said Cordelia. “A true Alfred Hitchcock moment.”

“Do you remember when Jordan received the last note?” asked Jane.

“Saturday afternoon. He had it with him and showed it to me on Saturday night. In fact, he'd brought the entire folder of notes with him. He'd saved every one.”

“Did you ever show them to the police?”

“Sure did. DePetro looked them over, didn't say much. I got the impression he thought someone was having a little fun with Jordan.”

“What did the last note say?”

“Just the letter ‘J.'”

“And the next day Jordan died.”

“You think it's connected? Because, I have to tell you, it was really starting to bother him. Jordan was superstitious—especially about the crows. He said it felt like it was some sort of hex.”

“Excuse me,” said Red.

Everyone turned to look.

Rubbing his hands down the sides of his overalls, he said, “Cordelia? I'm leaving in a few minutes. I wanted to tell you that I've found two guys I want to hire as maintenance staff. Do you want to see their résumés?”

“Just hire them,” said Cordelia. “Make sure they stop off at the business office and fill out the necessary forms.”

“Will do. Hi, Jane,” said Red, smiling a bit sheepishly. And then he nodded to Woodson.

“You look so familiar,” said Woodson. “Mr.—”

“Red,” he said. “Call me Red.”

“Have we met?”

“Not that I recall. Well, I'm off. Sorry about the interruption.”

“Huh,” said Woodson, shaking his head as Red shuffled away. “That guy is so familiar. Drives me crazy when I can't place a face.”

Jane found herself staring at the spot where Red had been standing. Staring and … wondering.

 

34

Kit was relieved to find Chloe in the living room later that afternoon. She'd shut herself away in her bedroom after the press conference and refused to talk to anyone, even Tommy, who'd stood at her door for a good half hour trying to get her to open up.

“Chloe? Can I get you something to eat?”

Standing at the window, looking down on the beach, Chloe shook her head. “I'm not hungry.”

Kit felt a pain deep in her bones seeing how pale and thin her daughter looked. “Some hot tea, then?”

“Do you think it will ever stop raining?”

“I know how you feel,” said Kit. “It's such a cold rain. The damp gets inside you. Let me find you a sweater.” All her daughter had on were jeans and a thin cotton T-shirt.

“No, I'm fine.”

Stepping over to the wall thermostat, she turned up the heat in the house. If she couldn't warm her daughter one way, she'd do it another.

“I had to turn my cell phone off,” said Chloe, keeping her back to her mother. “It never stops ringing. I don't want to talk to anyone. I mean, what am I supposed to say?”

“It was your dad and me,” said Kit. “None of this is on you. You and Booker were innocent bystanders.”

“Not according to that manuscript.”

“Chloe, please. That man, that doctor who gave the news conference this morning, he said several times, even underscoring it, that the story your father wrote was fiction. It was.”

“Not all of it.”

“But nobody knows that. Only those involved, and that's such a small number. Doctors are constrained by confidentiality issues, and Ray Lawless was able to get your police record wiped clean. Nobody in the family will say a word. I think you're reacting to a catastrophe that will never happen.”

Turning around, Chloe's eyes fastened on her mother. “Where's the key to Dad's gun cabinet?”

“Why?”

“Because I want a gun.”

“No way. Not happening.”

“This is my house now. I own everything in it. I want the key.”

“You don't own it yet.”

“When it's mine, you know what I'm going to do?” She stepped a few paces closer. “I'm going to call a real estate agent and sell it. I never want to set foot in this place again.”

“Chloe, honey—”

“And if you don't stop calling me honey, I'm going to burn the house down with
you
in it. Do you get it now? Do I make myself clear?”

*   *   *

Kit had no desire to talk to Ray. She didn't want to talk to anyone. In a matter of days, the life she'd loved so much had disappeared forever. And yet, when he'd phoned, she agreed to meet, mainly because he said he had some important news. Her one proviso was that, if he intended to drive out to the summerhouse, that they had to meet in his car. She couldn't chance upsetting Chloe any more than she already was.

As Kit sat in the passenger's seat, heavy rain beating down on the windshield and mercifully obscuring the house, she couldn't help but wonder if all the good times she'd spent here with her family had been part of the same lie as her marriage.

“It's all gone,” she whispered. “And nothing can ever bring it back.”

Ray sat silently behind the wheel, offering no words of encouragement.

Rousing herself, Kit said, “You have information. And questions. I have one, too. That man—Woodson. He said he had every right to release Jordan's manuscript, that it belonged to Jordan, and now that my husband was gone, he had the right to offer it to anyone who wanted to read it. Is that true? Shouldn't the manuscript be considered part of Jordan's estate?”

“I assumed you'd ask that,” said Ray. “The quick answer is, yes, most likely what he did was illegal. I suggest you contact Joji Mura. He may have better, and perhaps more specific, answers for you. That said, there's no way to undo what he did. Taking Woodson to court, if that's what you're thinking, might win you the right to prevent further distribution of the manuscript, but again, the horse is out of the barn.” He waited a few seconds, then went on. “We had a breakthrough yesterday, one that will have an impact on the case DePetro is building against you. That's why I'm here. The cold case unit of the MPD was able to connect Jordan's murder with three other murders that took place years ago at Cordelia's theater.”

She looked up sharply. “Connected how?”

“The same gun was used. William Edward Chapman. Stanislaw Melcer. And Decca Foster. I understand you knew all three. May I ask how?”

Her eyes rolled toward him, then away. “Well, let's just guess, shall we? The men I slept with. The woman was a disgusting worm of a journalist looking for dirt on Jordan and me.”

“It never seemed strange to you that they all disappeared?”

“No, Ray, it didn't.”

“Let's take Chapman. Were you still sleeping with him when he went missing?”

“We hadn't been together in weeks. I assumed he'd left his wife and taken off for greener pastures. He wasn't happy in his marriage.”

“So your relationship with him wasn't serious?”

“Hardly.”

“And Melcer?”

“I ended it. He was angry, or hurt—or both. He went around blustering that I was a witch and a bitch and a ballbuster. Beverly had a little talk with him. It doesn't mean, by the way, that she murdered the guy.”

“How long after she talked to him did he disappear?”

“Honestly, Ray, I have no memory of that.” Kit jumped at the sound of a rap on the side window. Locating the power switch and rolling the window down, she found Booker standing outside in the rain.

“Hey,” he said. “Oops. Am I interrupting something?”

“Of course not. We were just talking about DePetro. Where have you been?”

He grinned. “Is Chloe home?”

“In her bedroom. Go to her, okay? We had kind of a blowup.”

“Will do. Hey, Ray.” He waved, and then took off running up to the house.

“He's in a good mood,” said Kit, as she rolled her window back up. “I'm glad someone in this family is.”

Ray spent a moment adjusting the heat.

Kit spent the same moment watching him. “I wish there was more I could tell you.”

“At the very least, this new information will slow DePetro down.”

“So I'll still end up in jail, it will just take a while longer. You know,” she said, stretching her arms, “sometimes I think I should just pack up a few million dollars, get in that Learjet and have my pilot find me a nice warm little country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the U.S. You could even join me.” She glanced over and saw the horror in his eyes. “I'm joking.” Though, in truth, she wasn't.

“That would be an admission of guilt, Kit.”

“What's the difference? I didn't murder anyone and I'm probably going to spend the rest of my life in a six-by-eight-foot cell.”

“Is that Booker up on the porch?” asked Ray. He rolled down Kit's window. “Can you hear what he's saying?”

“Mom,” came Booker's scream. “Come here. Quick.”

In an instant, she was out of the car, rushing toward him.

Booker ran out to meet her. “It's Chloe. She's unconscious, facedown on the bed. I found these next to her.” He held up a pill bottle. “It's Xanax. I don't know how many she took.”

Kit grabbed the bottle and read the words “Sixty pills” out loud.

Ray was right behind her, already on his cell phone. He gave the house address to the 911 operator and then added all the important details.

“Thank you, Ray. Thank you, thank you. What would I do without you?” The next second, she was on her way to the front door, in the hallway that led to her daughter's bedroom, careening off walls, shattering a mirror, nearly falling. This couldn't be happening. Not Chloe. Not her little girl. “Get them to send an ambulance right away,” she screamed. “Now. Right now.”

 

35

Jane sat in front of the fireplace in her living room, feeling warm for the first time all day. As the fire snapped and the birch logs shifted in the grate, she ate her dinner—a bowl of buttered popcorn. Her dogs had hunkered down next to her, their eyes moving in lockstep with her hand, back and forth as she lifted the popcorn from the bowl to her mouth. It must be like watching a tennis match, she thought to herself. Except that, in this case, the ball was edible. She'd been calling her father ever since Woodson had left the theater. Knowing what she did now, she was worried about him. The fact that he hadn't returned any of her calls only increased her uneasiness.