The Oldest Sin (23 page)

“For instance?” he said, placing the menu squarely in front of him.

“The room was searched, right? Someone was looking for something?”

“A fair assumption.”

“Remember the diary I told you about last night?”

“The one Lavinia thought pointed to Ginger’s murderer?
If
she was murdered,” he added impatiently, “which is only speculation. Besides, that was a long time ago. What possible bearing could it have on today?”

“I don’t know,” said Sophie, angry at herself for not having an answer. She took several sips of wine, looking glum.

“I think we have to stick with motivations in the here and now.”

“You mean Peter.”

“Yes, for one.”

“Who else?”

“Well, what about Bunny? She was certainly upset with Lavinia for making that videotape. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I saw steam coming out of her ears on Saturday morning. She could have strangled Lavinia right then and there.”

“Strangled, maybe. But
murdered
, I just don’t buy it.”

“Look,” said Bram, folding his hands calmly over the menu, “from what you’ve told me, Bunny’s never received the attention or acclaim she deserved — the kind Lavinia always drew to herself. And yet wasn’t Bunny the brains behind the Daughters of Sisyphus Society? Maybe her jealousy finally got the better of her. In a moment of rage she —”

“Whipped up a batch of cheese ball nuggets using just the right amount of poisonous flowers? It wasn’t a moment of passion, Bram, it was premeditated murder. It’s also exactly die kind of weapon someone would use if he or she didn’t have a gun, or wasn’t brutal enough to use a knife or a baseball bat.”

“You
have
been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he said, eyeing her uncertainly.

“Of course I have! Virtually everyone who might be implicated in this mess is someone I know. I may be way off base, but I think if we find that diary, we’ll have a much clearer picture of who murdered both Ginger and Lavinia.”

“You think it was the same person?”

“It’s possible. Or at the very least, I think we’ll find a connection.”

“But,” said Bram, pouring them each more wine, “the diary’s been found. Whoever ransacked Lavinia’s suite took it.”

“Maybe,” she said, a note of depression creeping into her voice. “On the other hand, maybe Lavinia outsmarted them. She hid it somewhere terribly clever and it’s still around.”

“Kind of a long shot.”

She shrugged.

“And also, you’ve got to consider the fact that the diary might not have been what the murderer was looking for.”

“I know that,” said Sophie, meeting his eyes. “But if I’m wrong, all I’ll be wasting is my time.”

“I see. I assume that means you’re planning to look for it.”

She nodded.

“Am I going to be conscripted into this special forces team, too?”

She gazed at him languidly over the rim of her glass. “Kindly refrain from using your tasteless radio sarcasm on me, dear. The answer to your question is yes, I expect some help — if I need it, which I probably won’t.”

“Famous last words. You know, Soph, you can’t go off half-cocked and get involved in an official murder investigation.”

“I’m not getting involved,” she said indignantly. “I’m just doing a little quiet checking around. I’ve done it before.”

He shook his head.

“Look,” said Sophie. “I told that detective all about Ginger and the diary. I’m sure they’ll haul Bunny, Cindy, and Adelle in and talk to them. Who knows? Maybe it will take some of the heat off Peter. I hope it does.”

“If he’s
innocent.”

“Exactly. All I’m saying is that I want to look around the hotel for the diary. I’m not going to do anything dangerous.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “But think about this. If one of your friends
is
a murderer, you could be in real danger.”

“I’m aware of that. And I’ll be careful.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but moved quickly on to his next worry. “What about this Morton character?”

Sophie’d been thinking about him ever since he’d frightened the wits out of her last night. “I don’t know. I’m sure the police will want to talk to him again. But you know, I can’t help but wonder about the money he had with him. Do you think he might have been in that parking ramp to get paid off? He didn’t win the lottery, that’s for sure.”

“You mean someone hired him?”

“Possibly.”

Bram’s eyebrow arched upward. “To murder Lavinia?”

She gave a guarded nod.

“Listen, Sophie,” he said, sitting up straight, “no more walking around in darkened parking ramps, okay? From now on I want you to have one of the bellmen get your car for you.”

She’d already reached the same conclusion. “I promise. Believe me, I don’t want to run into Morton any more than you want me to.”

The waiter arrived to take their order.

“I’ll have the grilled fresh tuna,” said Bram, handing him the menu.

“And I’d like the black-bean cakes,” said Sophie, handing hers over as well. She didn’t feel much like eating, although sitting here with Bram, sharing a bottle of good wine, she did seem less anxious — even a little hopeful. After dinner they’d walk around the lake, maybe even take a stroll in the rose garden.

As the waiter returned to the kitchen with their orders, Bram sat back, shook his head, and sighed. “Why do I feel like we’re the condemned couple about to eat a hearty meal?”

“Don’t worry, darling. The health department consistently gives the Lyme House an A-plus rating.”

“You’re missing my point,
darling
.”

“No I’m not,” she said, patting his hand and smiling. “I’m just choosing to ignore it.”

On Tuesday morning, after a less than restful night’s sleep, Sophie drove over to the Maxfield Plaza to begin her search. Even though she had no idea where to look for the diary, she started with the assumption that the police had covered the suite with a fine-tooth comb. Consequently, she dispensed with that.

After spending several hours talking to all the bellmen, the staff at the front desk, and requesting that someone check the safe to see if there was anything inside with Lavinia’s name on it, she returned to her father’s office — now her office — and dropped with an air of failure into the leather desk chair. She hated to admit it, but perhaps Bram was right. Whoever had tom the suite apart had already found the diary. She was simply spinning her wheels.

As she gazed up at the oil portrait of her mother and father on the wall behind the desk, an idea occurred to her. What if Lavinia had given the book to someone for safekeeping? Sure. That was a possibility. But whom would she trust in a city where she barely knew a soul?

A name popped immediately to mind.

Lifting die Minneapolis White Pages from the bottom desk drawer, she once again looked up the number for Peter’s parents’ house in Edina. After punching in the numbers, a man’s voice answered.

“Is Peter there?” asked Sophie, hoping she’d find him in.

“He’s taking a shower,” replied the man. Then, hesitating, he added, “Who is this?”

Sophie felt sorry for him. The last few days must have seemed like a nightmare for his family. Peter returns home for a visit, and a couple of days later the woman he’s just married — and failed to tell them about — is murdered. “My name is Sophie Greenway. I was a friend of Lavinia Fiore.” She decided not to mention that she was the one who’d called yesterday.

“I see,” he said, his tone a mixture of reserve and relief. “I’m Peter’s father. I thought for a second there that you might be with the police.”

“No, no connection. But I would like to come over and speak with your son. Will he be around for a bit?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know. He’s trying to plan a memorial service for the end of the week, but what with the police hounding him every minute, it’s been hard to get anything done. I’m leaving in a couple of minutes myself. Would you like me to give him a message before I go?”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll just stop by and take my chances.”

“All right.” He hesitated. “He could use a friend right about now. You are … a friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” said Sophie. She hoped that was true. After saying a quick goodbye, she sat back in her chair and gave herself a moment to plan her next move.

If Peter was in the shower, that gave her a little extra time. The freeway would be the fastest route. She’d been up so many blind alleys already this morning, what was one more dead end in the scheme of things?

Half an hour later she pulled up in front of a large, two-story brick house. Only one car was in the drive. It looked new, possibly a rental. And that meant Peter might still be home.

Easing out of the front seat, Sophie made straight for the front door. She rang the bell and then waited, glancing up at one of the second-story windows. The curtains parted briefly and then eased back together. Whoever was inside was being careful. She stood — quid examining the shrubbery — for what seemed like an eternity before the door finally swung open. Peter appeared dressed in a gray-and-white-striped bathrobe, a towel draped around his shoulders. He didn’t look surprised to see her, merely resigned.

“This is kind of a bad time,” he began, making no move to ask her in.

“I know,” said Sophie, nodding sadly. “I’ve heard about all the trouble you’re having with the police. But I didn’t come to talk about any of that.”

“You didn’t? Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to ask you about — •”■ She hesitated. Lowering her voice she continued. “Something private.”

“Like what?”

“Invite me in and I’ll tell you.” She hoped she’d piqued his curiosity.

“Oh, all right,” he said, stepping back and allowing her to enter. “Come on,” he said, leading the way through the kitchen to a three-season porch at the back of the house. After making himself comfortable on a wicker sofa, he said, “So what’s up?”

Sophie sat down opposite him. He looked tired today, his good looks a bit frayed around the edges. He also seemed nervous, jumpy, fidgeting with the newspaper lying next to him on the couch, making as little eye contact as possible. She couldn’t help but think it was a response to the hours of intense questioning he’d undergone at the police station. “First, let me tell you how sorry I am about what happened to Lavinia. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk yesterday.”

“Thanks.” A small tremor passed across his face.

She watched him struggle to adopt a more impassive expression. “This may seem totally off-the-wall, Peter, but did Lavinia ever mention a diary to you? One that a woman named Ginger Pomejay kept back in the early Seventies?”

“Sure,” he replied, his agitation easing just a bit as he saw that she really wasn’t going to press him on the subject of his wife’s murder. “The one who died back at that religious college you all attended. If I’m not mistaken, she brought the diary with her to Minnesota.”

“Do you know why?”

“She wanted to confront someone with it. Someone she thought might have had a hand in Ginger’s death.”

“And do you know who that someone is?”

He looked away. “She asked me not to tell, not that I thought anyone would ever ask. She wanted to keep it a secret until she had a chance to talk to the man.”

So it was a man, thought Sophie. Fascinating. “She didn’t by any chance give the diary to you for safekeeping before she died?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“You have no idea where it might be?”

“None. Say, now that you bring it up, that’s kind of funny. I saw a detailed list of her belongings in the police report this morning. They asked me to go through it and comment on what I thought might be missing. All I could see that was gone was her jewelry.”

This was news to Sophie. The detective hadn’t mentioned it. “You say her jewelry had been taken?”

“Every last scrap. But now that I think about it, someone must have taken that diary, too.” He raked a hand through his clean, uncombed hair. “I loved her, Sophie. I’ve never loved anyone the way I did Lavinia. She was special. One of a kind. I felt so lucky when she agreed to be my wife. And now … why can’t the police see that? Why would I want her jewelry? It makes no sense.” He dropped his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

The pain on his face touched her deeply. She might be a romantic sap, but she had a hard time believing it was an act. • After almost a minute he wiped a hand across his face and looked up. “I’m such a pathetic fool,” he whispered. “I deserve everything I get.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because …” His eyes slid past her.