Bacon, eggs over easy, fried red potatoes, and toast filled the plates, the plates finding a home at my table.
“Thanks,” Michael moaned. “Sorry.”
“For?”
“Eh. Not being Michelle. Late night. Mom calls it burning the candle at both ends.”
“Lenette.”
“Well, yeah. I have to come home from work, shower—make sure I get all the makeup off—”
“I get the picture.”
“It really sucks she can’t see me at work.”
“Work okay?
“Diane and I have been talking a lot. I kind of wish Michael could—”
“I mean with Mr. Edwards?”
“Sure, sure. Well, Bob’s not himself. I mean—”
“He puts on a good front.”
“He does. I can’t believe they’re putting her in a place.”
“Long care facility. It’s complicated.”
“Not to me.”
“Decisions are a lot easier to make when you don’t have to live them. He’s not hostile toward you?”
“Toward me? No. Well, I did think he’d fire me. Then you had that talk with him.”
“Private discussions should stay private.” I narrowed my eyes. “Lenette.”
He blushed.
“Why do you live here? I mean, in this apartment?”
“Huh?”
“So you can learn what it’s like to be a girl.”
“Well, sure, there’s that.”
“Now you’re living as a boy and as a girl, just like before.”
“Eh—”
“What was our agreement?”
“That you’d be getting a girl roommate. But you're hardly here anymore. What’s it matter?”
“I should be sitting in the Nook reading the newspaper right now.”
“Do you want me to go put my makeup on?”
“Not the point.”
“What is the point, Toby?”
“Do you even want to be a girl anymore? I mean, now that you found a girl who likes Michael?”
“Loves me. Lenette is in love with me.”
“With Michael.”
“Yes.”
“What about Michelle?”
“It’s complicated.”
“No, it isn’t. I can make one phone call and arrange for you to have a sex change operation.”
“Huh? No one asked you to do that.”
“Is that something you’d want? To be a girl? For real?”
“I didn’t think that even possible.”
“One phone call. Is that something you’d like to do?”
“It would be nice to have my panties fit right.”
I rolled my eyes so hard the ceiling should have fallen in.
He put his fork next to his plate, sitting back in his chair, watching me. “Sometimes when I walk down the mall watching my reflections in the windows, I can’t imagine being anything else.”
“And other times?”
“I can’t imagine living without my dick.”
“Peeing standing up must be such a convenience.”
“I can write my name in the snow.”
Again, the eye roll.
“I like to orgasm. Sometimes, I can’t jerk off enough. Getting blown. Sex with Lenette. It is complicated. Give all that up so my panties fit right?”
“I guess we have our answer as to whether you’re a boy or a girl.” I drooped my eyelids. “What if there were no Lenette?”
“I can’t imagine life without her.”
“That happened quick.”
He retrieved his fork, going at his potatoes for three mouthfuls. “Then there’s Levy.”
“Levy Palmer.”
He looked at the ceiling. “Engaged to be engaged. I want to say I cared about Levy because I’d be an asshole if I didn’t.”
“How’s that?”
“I used Levy to test drive Michelle. How did you put it? Being a girl in normal surroundings, like when we went back to school.”
“My friendship with Levy started out with me thinking the station wagon could be useful. I don’t know what would have happened with that friendship if you hadn’t dropped into the middle of it.”
“We use people.”
“When they’re useful.”
“Good eggs.”
“To be clear: it’s no to the sex reassignment surgery.”
“Yes. I mean, yes that’s a no. For now.”
“For now?”
“I’ll think about it. I doubt I’ll change my mind, but I’ll think about it. Lenette is not Levy.”
“Meaning?”
“I used Levy. I want to be with Lenette. I mean, when things got old and tied with Levy, I dropped him like a hot potato. I really didn’t care about him or his feelings.”
“You often said you’re not gay even while you were gaying it up with Levy.”
“That was Michelle, not Michael.”
“Understood.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
More than you think and not what you think. “If Mr. Edwards offers you Pamala’s position, turn him down.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know how much longer you’re going to be a girl.”
He opened his mouth to object, swallowing his words and some toast instead. “I can’t see me putting Michelle in a box, but what you say makes sense. Lenette and Michelle. It’s too bad she’s a totally different size. She has some really cool clothes.”
He filled his mouth again. “I bet she’d like Michelle. I’ve been thinking of ways to creep into the topic. She’d be getting a boyfriend and a girlfriend.”
“Charley.”
“Who?”
“At the dance. The boy in the gown.”
“Oh, him.”
“To hear Shawn tell it, Lenette was leading the lynch mob.”
“It’s not like that. Well. I was shouting just as loud. You know how I feel. It was a mob thing.”
“Mob thing or not, I don’t have to be a spiritualist to know if you tell Lenette, she’ll drop you like a hot potato.”
“Maybe—”
“Think carefully before you become engaged to be engaged.”
“I will.”
“Shawn.”
“Shawn?”
“Yes, Shawn.”
“What about her?”
“She doesn’t stay in the apartment anymore because she’s afraid you’ll try to rape her in her sleep.”
“Huh? You can’t rape the willing.”
I came half out of my chair, knife in hand. It was a butter knife, but in my hand, still deadly.
“Toby!” Michael yelled, his hands in front of his face.
I dropped back hard on my chair. “Shawn told me she’s told you repeatedly to stop grabbing at her.”
“I’m just messing around. We did it, you know.”
I held his eyes. “Yes. I know.” I nodded behind me. “Out there, boys will be boys. In here, you’ll behave yourself.”
“Eh—”
“Don’t mistake this for a discussion. Keep your hands off Shawn. She’s made clear your advances are unwelcome.”
He watched his plate.
“I need an affirmation. Keep your hands off Shawn.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll keep my hands off of Shawn.”
I kept my or else what to myself. “I’m moving.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“You have to—”
“Sorry. I’m transferring the lease into your name. Rather, Michelle Roberts.”
“Huh?”
“It’ll help establish your Michelle identity. That is unless you want the lease to be in your real name.”
“Eh, that’s good. Michelle. How much, I mean, monthly.”
“The rent is paid through February next year. The place is yours until then. Once the lease is changed, which should be by the end of next week, I don’t give a fuck if you never wash another dish or even pee all over the bathroom floor and toilet.”
Again, he stared at his plate. “You don’t have a very good opinion of me.”
“I’ve seen what you can do when you put your mind to it. You haven’t been putting your mind to it.”
Deep sigh. “I haven’t.”
I stood, working my backpack onto my shoulders. “Maybe like with Levy, this toy has lost its shine.”
He asked with his face.
“Living here. At first, you appreciated the gift, showing your gratitude by being eager to please.”
Again, he stared at his plate, making clear how right my decision not to have children was.
“You have Shawn’s car.”
He looked up at me. “Well, ah, with Lenette and all.”
“Washed, and I bet waxed. You don’t even have a driver’s license.”
“Got it last week!”
I offered the slightest shrug. “Shawn’s loaned you her car. That’s a gift. You’re showing your appreciation until you don’t.”
“You could have just reminded me to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen.”
“Before you leave the apartment today.”
“Promise.”
Michael annoyed me in a way Michelle never had. Michael annoyed me in the same way Dasey Longardner had.
“Officer Martin,” I greeted, rolling up from behind his patrol car on my red Raleigh bicycle two blocks west of the Nook.
“Toby, hi.”
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t. Not much, anyway. We didn’t get your invoice for the lawn.”
“Consider it a bribe.”
“Call it a favor instead of a bribe, so considered, then.”
“So considered. May I ask you a private and personal question?”
“Only if I may ask you one in exchange.”
“Oh, what a dangerous game that is.”
“Absolutely.”
I clocked the surroundings, leaning towards Officer Martin. “Given your hobby,” I raised an eyebrow, “and given what you know now, would you have still gotten married?”
“You don’t ask the easy questions.”
“Rarely.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“I bet you have, given all the clines and colors, all the ins, and all the outs.”
“The answer always comes back to yes, though I do have my moments.” He bit his lip. “Mary is real. She’s not.”
She was just as real as my mind ghost, Antoinette, the discussion of the parsing I wished to avoid in the moment. “If you could snap your fingers and become a woman, would you?”
“That’s a second question. You asked for one.”
“I did.”
“The two men who got murdered over near the Speedline station. Did you do that?”
“You wasted your ask on a question you already know the answer to.”
“Toby. Fair is fair. Answer the question.”
“Yes, that was my handywork.”
“Did you go hunting?”
“That’s a second question. I’ll answer anyway. No. I did not go hunting. As it shook out, Chase Hastings was sitting on a story about muggings up and down the Line. If I’d known that, I may have gone hunting.”
“She sat on the story?
“Her editor did.”
I came up to my old-new house on Newton just as the truck was jockeying into the driveway. Dropping my bike and backpack on the lawn, I climbed to the driver’s window. “Hi, Mike, what’s it to you.”
He laughed full and rich. “I tell that story often.”
“I bet you do.” I passed him a twenty.
“He just pushed his way in,” Theodore Avery greeted just inside the door.
“He, who?”
“Some guy. I think he’s drunk. No. I know he’s drunk. Rambling something about this being his house.”
“Phone working yet?”
“As of an hour ago.”
“Anything else? I mean other than the drunk man.”
“Eh?”
“That you need me for.”
“Oh. No.” He produced a yellow, lined sheet of paper from his breast pocket, unfolding. “I thought I’d be part-time.”
I glanced the list, nodding as I entered the kitchen, putting the telephone receiver on my shoulder, working the rotary. “You okay with all this?”
“Shawn blocks out plenty of time.”
“You can do plumbing?”
“Some—well, a little. Archie’s good at it.”
I turned from Theodore. “Good morning, Officer Flagg. Toby here,” I said into the phone.
“Um, hi,” he answered.
I provided the address. “We’ve had a drunk push into the property. Doesn’t want to leave. Belligerent. I do not wish to put any of my employees at risk, and I certainly don’t wish to put myself at risk. I know intoxicated people can be unpredictable. Could you please radio Officer Martin to drop by?”
“You are wise beyond your years.”
Replacing the receiver, I turned back to Theodore. “There’s no shame in not knowing how to do shit. Don’t be afraid to speak up. We’ll get you help if you need it.”
“Mr. Katz said I can get ahold of him anytime I need to.”
“Keep Shawn in that loop.”
“Why?”
“She needs to know your limitations.”
“That makes sense.”
“Hello!” resounded from the front of the house.
“In here,” I answered.
Officer Martin appeared. “You’re the new owner?”
“You got here quick.”
“I was having a donut and coffee—”
“At The Tower.”
“Good coffee.”
“Love their cheeseburgers.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Avery?”
“Theodore Avery,” he answered. “Yes.”
“Aren’t you the person—”
“Yes, he is,” I said. “He works for me now. Long story, short. People are so impressed with how I maintain a lawn, I’ve had people hire me to do handyman work.”
“Wouldn’t that be handy-woman work?”
“In my case, maybe handy-girl. Since the proper term is handyman, I had to hire an actual man.”
“Your yardwork is outstanding. What kind of things? Mary has a long honey-do list.”
“Talk to Shawn. She handles all that.”
He pursed his lips, nodding. “I guess I’ll see you in the stacks for the story of why it’s this man you hired.”
“Officer Martin, I can’t tell you how grateful I am—”
I cut Avery off with, “How about some serving and protecting?”
Martin glanced his notepad. “Intoxicated person?”
I dismissed Avery with a nod. Once he was out of earshot, I rolled my eyes. “I won’t talk cryptically or talk in vague euphemisms. My father is spiraling in a major crash and burn. He left his family for a girl closer my age than his, who is now dead. He believes me to be dead. His son just died.”
“The overpass jumper.”
“That’s the one. He was an abusive drunk long before his life went to shit.” I pointed to the scar on my cheek. “The walls are closing in. This used to be his house. Ironically, Gus Avery, Theodore’s uncle, stole it from him.”
“You own it now?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t even imagine how that’s possible.” He cocked his head. “You did evict the squatters.”
“The story gets complicated from here.”
Martin laughed. “Serving and protecting. Does he know you’re his daughter?”
“I butterflied.”
He considered the ceiling. “I held up your photo, the photo of how you used to look. Looked right at you. Asked if you’d seen the girl.”
“It’s good butterflying.”
“It is. What do you want me to do? I could jam him up good. Make a point.”
“He’s already jammed up good. Haul him out of here? Put the fear of God into him? Act like you’re going to jam him up?”
“That’s not likely to sober him up for long.”
“I know, Bill. But it’s something. Upstairs. Room at the end of the hall.”
Cuffed, not so belligerent in the face of authority, Officer Martin deposited my father in the back of the patrol car as I watched from the porch. I knew I should care, but I didn’t. He was like an annoying gnat floating in the air around my face, no longer the quick-to-anger, bigger-than-life monster that had me hiding in the shadows.
A blue Toyota—washed but not waxed—deposited Shawn. Though I couldn’t hear the conversation, I knew Officer Martin was detailing his honey-do list, Shawn nodding, distracted.
“Check this out,” Theodore said, coming beside me, a shoebox under one arm, a photo in his hand.
I drank the 5 x 7 black-and-white of my mother, naked, attempting to look seductive, failing with the oversell—reminding me of when Michael tries too hard to come off being a girl.
“Explains that big box of photo developing equipment in the basement,” I said absently, thumbing through the photos, all of my mother, none of my father. “Thank God for small favors.”
“Can I keep it?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Toby. The photo-making stuff, not the photos.”
I accepted the shoebox. “Sure.”
Shawn dropped to the top step next to me, helping herself to a handful of photos. “Your father is an embarrassment.”
“Aren’t they a pair?”
She displayed a photo. “Your mother?”
“Having been a big fan of adult magazines since I was ten, I can confidently say this is terrible photography.”
“They look more like photos for a biology class report than come on and fuck me photos.”
“Forensic photos.”
“I really did wish to challenge you. You know, knock you off your high horse.”
“Please do. Anytime. Bring receipts.”
“I gave Jane’s file a hard read. Before I opened it, I decided it wasn’t a hit. What do you call that?”
“Confirmation bias.”
“Yeah, that.”
“And?”
“It was a hit. They meant to kill her.”
“Now, we need to know why.”
“We know who; fuck the why.”
Vienna’s warning echoed around my brain.
“My mother aged a lot in ten or so years.” I offered a photo as proof.
“Drinking and smoking will do that. And, of course, having the likes of you as a kid.”
“Child. I’m not a baby goat; your point is well taken.” Again, I displayed the photo. “Who’s she look like?”
“Not you.”
“I’d wondered with my brother’s and Uncle Percy’s ill-concealed sexual aggression toward me over the years why my father hadn’t tried to fuck me or at least jerk off in my underwear. Tammy Flannagan.”
“Your father’s—what?”
“Side squeeze.”
“Yeah, never met her.”
“My father shitcanned his entire life just to have access to Tammy’s underwear. I couldn’t imagine why. He traded my mother in for a newer model.” Again, I displayed the photo. “Recovering a person he lost to time.”
“Time, drinking, smoking, and you.”
“I should warn my mother. Maybe get Sister Rebecca to warn her.”
“About?”
“My father coming back around.”
She nodded. “To recover what he lost.”
I nodded toward the street. “You borrowed your car?”
Following a soft growl, Shawn said, “You do a guy a favor; he takes advantage.”
“You let him use the car for that date; he thinks he’s entitled to it forever. Just like your underwear.”
“I’ve never caught him in my—”
I gave Shawn a hard glance.
“Oh. Yeah. Like that.”
“Take him down to Circle Auto. Buy him something cheap. Make clear it’s a loan. Come up with a weekly payment schedule.”
“Collect like Bat does.” She took a deep breath. “End of next week. If he passes the driver’s test.”
“Fucking liar. He just told me he has his license. This story isn’t going to end well. We need to kick him loose. Quietly.”
Shawn nodded. “Car next week. He pays us back. Fade to black. Like with him fucking me. I just don’t make myself available.”
“Two roads diverge. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman.” I presented a photo as proof.
“Girl.”
“Almost not. A couple years older than me, I guess.”
“I’d fuck her.”
“Not if you actually knew her.
“Likely not.” She glanced behind her. “Get your things. We have shit to do.”
“The newspaper said rain. I wanted to get the sidewalk edged.”
“A good day to inspect those houses.”
“We should go mow those two lawns we have booked for today.”
“It’s raining,” Shawn said.
With the county map taped to the wall in our war room, I marked the eight locations with red circles, stepping back. “That was rather anticlimactic.”
Sitting at the table, Shawn set her index cards aside. “Twenty-eight. Hotdogs, beans, and fries.”
“Always a winner with me. I like my hotdogs slightly burned.”
“I was hoping for a dramatic rescue, too.”
“With the rain, perfect.”
“That one house. You used to live there?”
“Yes. Seems like a million years ago.”
“No dust. Like someone lives there now.”
“Obviously not, with the refrigerator empty.”
“Your bedroom. Like a museum exhibit.”
“I did not have my clothes laid out on display like that. Creepy.”
“Like a memorial to you.”
“Locke’s spank bank. I guess he sits in the room pretending it’s his room, his clothes, he’s me. Slobbering his dick up, whacking off.”
“Weird.”
“Complicated. He’d dress up—”
“Like, as a girl?”
“Eh, no. A woman.”
“That was pretty strange. At the party.”
“It was a dinner.”
“Okay. At the dinner. The men in their 40s and 50s dressing like they’re teenage girls. That one guy a go-go dancer.”
“I think they’re trying to relive a time when they were younger.”
“Prettier.”
“I think it’s unfair for us sirens to judge what’s pretty and not pretty.”
“You think I’m a siren?”
“Moments, like when the morning light catches the highlights in your hair, and like when you get that twinkle in your eye when you talk about when you threw Mark onto the truck windshield, or when you talk about when Pamala fucked you.”
I winked. “And, oh, that blush like now.”
“You’re such a tease.”
“I don’t mean to be.”
She rolled her eyes. “You were saying Bill Locke would dress up like a sixth grader—”
“I did not. He’d dress appropriate for his age. I’d get naked. He’d eye-fuck me while jerking off.”
“You’d get naked?”
“Wasn’t my idea.”
“Get naked.”
“Shawn!”
“If that’s all it takes.”
“Million dollars.”
“What? Huh?” She narrowed her eyes. “The newspapers said half that.”
“There accounting sucks.”
“Then that’s true? About the money?”
“The only reason I opened the grass-cutting business was so I could launder money—I have to account for where the money comes from.”
“That explains the five thousand dollars cash each week in the deposit.” She pursed her lips. “I’m still going to make you money. That, and I’m going to turn the taxi business around.”
“Business plans.”
“You liked the 1 Bread plan.
“We’ll see how it works next week.”
“You don’t think it’ll work?”
“The plan is perfect on paper. With people involved, we never know.” I turned back to the wall. “Eight houses. Six need a good cleaning. My old house is Locke’s spank bank.”
“Awaiting his next victim.”
“The other house getting regular maid service—”
“Just when I thought things couldn’t get any creepier.”
“A makeshift operating theater in the basement.”
“With straps on the table.”
“I can’t imagine. I’ll run it by Doctor Kerney when I see him.”
“Maybe it’s a secret emergency room—”
“For emergencies they need to keep off the books, like gunshot wounds, even with no hints that it’s ever been used.”
“Gunshot wounds and abortions.”
“All you need for an abortion is a kitchen table.”
“And Doctor Kerney.”
“I should ask if I can watch the next one just in case I need to know how.”
“That’s not your kidding face.”
“Put it on the calendar. We watch all the houses. Now that we’ve been inside, all we need do is a drive-by, look for lights on, the lawn mowed.
“So put.”
“Jane’s file.”
Shawn twisted a smirk. “I’m going to give the list to Rich, get detailed profiles on each, draw up a business plan for how to kill each of those assholes. I think we should have a serious talk to the cops, too.”
“You think there’s a coverup?”
“I know there’s a coverup.”
“I agree. That’s why you get the big bucks. I still want to know why Jane was targeted. Put her on the list for Mr. Serling to do background.”
“You could just ask Jane.”
“I will. Once I get the background.”
“People. They rarely tell the truth.”
“People, Shawn, tell their version of the truth.”
“Yes. I understand the difference.”
With a subtle nod indicating the dark corner behind her, Shawn asked, “What’s with the suitcase?”
“I don’t know. Harriet Stiles left it to me in her will.”
“Big payday just to mow the lawn.”
“Well, there was a lot of cleanup, too.”
“Still. She overpaid by a lot.”
“I think she wanted to keep her money from the vultures, giving it to me instead.”
“Like money laundering.”
“Sure. Giving the money to me as payment for a job isn’t as easily challenged like if she just gave me a gift.”
“That’s some serious passive aggression.”
“Twenty years. Someone could have stopped over and run a mower over her grass.”
“And the suitcase.”
“Dasey Longardner made a big deal out of it.”
“Dasey?”
“Stiles’ niece. Executor of the estate.”
Shawn scribbled on her yellow notepad. “I’ll go through it when I have time. I get the feeling you want nothing to do with it.”
“It’s not that.”
“I know. You often say that you don’t have time for magic and other supernatural nonsense.”
“I said that? I know I could have, because it’s true.”
“Not in so many words. Suitcase. On my to-do list.”
“Honey-do list. What does Officer Martin need?”
“I’ve known Bill for a long time. Met him his first day on the job.”
“Officer Martin getting coffee at the Nook.”
“And a donut. I never imagined his wife’s a princess.”
I asked with my face.
“I have to see her for the list. He did mention, for example, doing a deep cleaning of the oven; take the drapes down, take them to the cleaners. After cleaning Allen’s ovens at the Nook every year, Mary’s isn’t going to be a problem.”
“Learn to delegate.”
Shawn laughed, not an open-mouth full laugh, but a laugh just the same. “At the party you call a dinner. You and Jessica washing pots and pans. I’ll delegate. I’ll also clean the oven and take some drapes down.”
“You’re the boss.”
“You’ve made that perfectly clear.”
“Careful what you say around Mrs. Martin, unless you want her waving a cross in your face.”
“Oh, she’s one of them.” She chin-bobbed behind me. “Who’s our new target?”
I looked, not needing to, a dozen newspaper stories taped to the wall. “This is an odd one.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Bruce Hanson. Bill Locke told me Mr. Hanson was a mentor who saved him from life on the street. Locke said he was a builder.”
“Locke lied to you. I’m shocked.”
“Hanson was the biggest crime boss in this area.”
“I read the stories.”
“Well, I have some deep color that’s not on the wall.”
“Like?”
Bruce Hanson was William Hanson’s father. Don’t beat your fingers on the table.”
“Why would I do that?”
“It’s like a drum roll or something.”
“Oh. I tried band in high school. Tuba. I’ll stick with dancing.”
“William Hanson is now known as Bill Locke.”
Shawn narrowed her eyes at the wall across the room. “Assassinated on the pier. Shot twice in the chest, fell in the Delaware.”
“The body was never found.”
“I was getting there.”
“We should go mow those two lawns we have booked for today.”
“It’s raining,” Shawn said.
I’d heard the bell, waiting for the light tapping on the war room door.
“Come, Rachel,” I said.
“How’d you—” Shawn began.
“I should claim magic. Deductive reasoning.” I removed my tan work shirt, leaving me in my white lace bra. “You’re soaked.”
“It’s raining,” Rachel Paige answered, struggling her teal sweater over her head, accepting my shirt, hanging her dripping top on the doorknob. “Got a couple rides, mostly walked.”
“News?”
“Oh. Molly Rose. No. I had to get out of the house. I started walking. Ended up here. I don’t mean to be a bother.” She squirmed her bell-bottomed jeans over her sneakers, draping her pants on the back of a chair, leaving her in a full white brief, a white cotton bra, and my tan work shirt open, soaked brown socks, and black sneakers.
Shawn stood. “I’m going to drop over the house. Get you some dry clothes, a towel or two. Hungry? How about grilled cheese? Hot chocolate?”
“Can you make that coffee?”
I snickered. “I’ll call it in. The order will be waiting for you.” I held Rachel’s eyes. “If you need to get anywhere in the future, give Royal Taxi a call.”
Shawn, half out the door, said, “I’ll put you on the list. Free ride anywhere, anytime.
“Much safer than hitchhiking.”
With the singing of the bell and the click of the front door latch, Rachel leaned toward me, wide-eyed. “Molly’s gotten weird in school.”
I nodded for an explanation.
“I don’t mean weird in school. I mean, weird with me. We don’t have any classes together. When she sees me in the hall, we’re like hugging like we’re best friends or something.”
“My guess, Rachel, is you’re her only friend. Perhaps the only friend she’s ever had.”
“Like when I first met Pamala.”
Ellen Viceroy watched down on me, her pencil to the order book.
I set my copy of the Friday morning Philadelphia Courier aside. “Ellen?”
“Eh. My father.”
“Please, Ellen. Feel free to ask me anything.”
“Do you know why he didn’t want me to leave the house today?”
“He didn’t want you to leave the house?”
“He was kind of crazy about it. He was practically on his knees.”
I offered a causal shrug, sipping coffee. “I have no idea.”
She leaned inches from my face. “I know you know things.”
“Of this, I don’t.”
She straightened, scribbling. “Two Toby the usuals. I explained to Dad that I have responsibilities. People, like you, are counting on me.”
“Two? Eh—”
Shawn slipped in beside me, kissing my cheek. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“I know,” Ellen answered, turning, skipping off toward the kitchen.
Chase Hastings found a chair across from us with greetings, accepted an envelope from me, and removed the copy, flipping pages. “We’re wasting our time. Ray’s remarks about the story were not polite.”
“I personally love the local color,” Shawn said. “Maybe shoehorn in a lengthy quote from Tillman, include his picture. Men.” She rolled her eyes.
I laughed, more like a cynical snicker. “Raymond Carter is an asshole more concerned with keeping his boot on the necks of talent than rolling out a quality newspaper every day.”
“Even though I know it’s not true, he gets me thinking I’m a terrible writer.”
“The story of men in one sentence,” Shawn said.
“The Lincoln, Chase. Center City.”
“Where the gangland assassination didn’t happen.”
“Not the way your paper reported it.”
Her notepad came to the table open to a blank page, pencil at the ready. “I saw the room. You got me access.”
“Eight tonight. At the bar in the restaurant. The Grill. Do you have a portfolio?”
“Yes.”
“Bring it. And Chase?”
“Toby?”
“Everything you hear or see at my table is understood to be deep background only.”
She blinked at me.
“Affirm that.”
“Everything I see or hear at your table—your table being a metaphor for in your presence—is deep background only.”
“Oh, I like this girl,” Shawn said.
“Woman.”
“Do you dance?”
“Not as often as I like.”
“Oh, I like this woman a lot.”
“So do I.” I caught Chase’s eyes. “Welcome to my inner circle.”
“Miss Grimes, Miss Beedle,” Bartholomew Peters said, coming next to Chase, looking down.
“Eh, Chase Hastings.”
“Bartholomew Peters, Miss Hastings. I’ve seen your work in the Herald Post. They squander talent.”
“I know who you are—by reputation.”
“Don’t believe half of it,” he offered with a chuckle. Looking at me, he asked, “Am I intruding?”
“Not at all. Breakfast?”
“They do have good eggs.”
He sat, waving to Ellen, looking at Chase. “Are you in or out?”
“Huh?”
“Chase is in. Blood oath and everything.”
He chuckled again.
“Miss Grimes?” She asked, squinting. “Artemis Grimes?” She nodded as if to herself. “Oh, that makes all the sense in the world.”
“We good?” Peters asked.
“Yes, we’re good.”
“Then, I’ll tell you a story.”
“Please do.”
“You were so right about that panic call I was going to get.” He leaned back, Ellen placing his breakfast on the table. “How are you, Ellen?”
“I’m great, Mr. Peters. I love this new job. The regular people are so nice, make me feel at home. Mr. Weber can be difficult, but compared to—”
“How’s your father?”
“Something’s got him scared. Like the USSR is going to nuke Philly any second.”
“Ellen.”
“Mr. Peters?”
“Relax. Everything with your father will be fine. You—and he—have nothing to worry about.”
Ellen stared for an eternity, the implications landing on her like a hydrogen bomb hitting Philadelphia. “Thank you, Mr. Peters.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Funny thing, Miss Grimes.”
“How’s that, Mr. Peters?”
He produced an envelope from his inside jacket pocket, placing it on the table. “Thomas Stenholm is afraid of words.”
“Terrified. Did he wish for you to buy someone lunch?”
Peters scoffed. “Mr. Viceroy called. Commanded I come to the office.”
I offered a playful smirk.
“Before the sun was up.”
“I’ve not had the pleasure. I’ve seen him around.”
“You were right.”
“Stenholm.”
“Almost right. An associate of Stenholm’s, who you know well, not as well as you thought, wanted my services.”
“I guess he wasn’t in the room.”
“No, he wasn’t. Stenholm was playing not-so-coy strawman. I really hate the assassination business. Don’t take that wrong. I admire those who are good at it. I don’t care for the complexity. The details. The risk-benefit. I much prefer a few bucks a week to keep dime store hoodlums from ransacking a business.”
“Most people don’t understand, when done right, the details involved. I know the answer, but I’m going to ask anyway. Who did Butch Falcon want you to kill?”
“I did not mention Butch Falcon.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“You. Stenholm babbled about coming after the rest of your fortune—”
“Did he use that word: fortune?”
“He did. He rambled on about not wanting to taint his legal reputation and that Falcon had engaged an outside attorney—an ambulance chaser on the verge of disbarment for too many shady deals—to come after you with what sounded more like a blackmail scheme.”
“He is?”
“Sidney Jones.”
“Be difficult to steal the fortune from a dead person. Breathe, Chase. You’re at the adult table.”
“I’m okay.”
“Around all his buy you lunch and other gibberish, Stenholm proxied to hire me to kill you for Falcon. He was very clear about that.”
“How so?”
“Stenholm hammered away that he wasn’t hiring me, that it was Falcon. Stenholm repeatedly said as much as he handed me the cash.”
“How much?”
“Eh, oh. Five thousand dollars.”
“He should have gone for fifty,” Shawn said.
“Not even that, Miss Beedle. You don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“I’ve said that,” Chase said.
“You said duck.”
“Anyway,” Peters interjected between us. “You’ve been to Philadelphia, Miss Grimes.”
“I have.”
“The streets are dangerous.”
“They are.”
“One misstep, Mr. Falcon is two blocks away being peeled off the front of a bus.” He took a long, slow draw on his coffee. “No complexity or even details. There he was; here comes the bus.”
“Such a sad ending to a promising career.”
“Mr. Stenholm was all beside himself when he heard the news. Well, when I gave him the news.” Peters glanced the table. “Wrote a check for every penny he stole from you—he’s a meticulous accountant. Had the number in his head.”
“He’s good with details, his three pens neatly lined up on his desk.”
“I’m going to keep the five thousand as a finder’s fee.”
“Fitting.”
“Mr. Sidney Jones?”
“I’m good. I have plans for Mr. Jones.”
“As for Mr. Stenholm—”
“I’m good with that as well.”
He glanced the envelope again. “Since Mr. Viceroy and I have history and an ongoing relationship that I value, I made him aware of Mr. Stenholm’s shenanigans, assuming Stenholm didn’t have the money to cover the check he wrote, borrowing money from the law firm.”
I retrieved the check, signed it, and handed it to Shawn. “Cash this. See Lauren, get Bancroft in on it. Offer Bancroft a commission for his assistance.”
“That’s a lot of zeros.”
“It is.”
“We have a funeral—”
“No, we don’t. Chase?”
“Toby? Eh—”
“Toby is fine. Busy?”
“Nothing on my plate that can’t wait. Carter has a stack of busy work on my desk—well, if I had a desk. You know what I mean.”
“Go with Shawn.” I turned to Shawn. “After the bank, show Chase the 1 Bread office. Go over the Mark Hastings file with her.”
“The complete file?”
“Chase has assured me she’s a big girl.”
“You have a file on my father?”
Peters smirked, working to his feet. “Oh, Miss Grimes. You’re a lot of fun.”
“Hi, Antoinette,” Samantha Sullivan greeted me.
“Andy, Father Peterson.” I nodded to each. “Toby’s fine. Matter of fact, preferred.”
Sullivan narrowed her eyes, looking up from the table in the backroom of the church, sketches scattered over the surface. “Antoinette Blanc.”
“Logan.” Again, a nod, this time across the room to Sullivan’s boyfriend, Logan standing quietly.
“I like this girl,” Peterson said joyfully.
“Me, too,” I agreed.
“You can’t be—”
“Andy. Leave it alone.”
“Mom and Dad had their first fight—that I know of. Leave it alone is exactly what Dad told Mom.”
I bit my lip. “Is she going to?”
“Yes and no.”
“I did suggest to her that she walk softly, keep to the shadows.”
“She needs to talk to you, Antoinette Blanc.”
I glanced Logan, nodded again to Father Peterson, and then my attention rested with Sullivan. “Bad things happened. I needed to disappear. I needed to be someone else.”
“Antoinette being dead—”
I offered the slightest shrug. “She didn’t need her identification, so I took it.”
“That’s what Mom said. She also said I should look at your works—what you do—not how we got here.”
“Good advice.”
“It is,” Logan said from across the room.
“Human beings, eh, Toby?”
“Toby’s good.”
“Human beings, Toby, are a curious lot.”
“That they are.”
“What do you have Mom researching?”
“What did she tell you?”
“To leave it alone.”
“Samantha.” I carefully articulated my entire birth name, “and Jody Demarko.”
Sullivan held my eyes, affirming she knew of whom I spoke.
“A secret society exists—dates back hundreds of years. I do not have the whole picture—yet. That’s the secret part. I do know for a fact that this secret society is responsible for the deaths of those two children—and more.”
“Me and Logan thought it must be something like that.” She turned away, pushing sketches around. “Want to see what she looked like?”
“We did look at your works,” Logan said.
“For me,” Sullivan said, “it was more looking you in the eyes.” She said my full birthname, “Jody Demarko, and Antoinette Blanc,” as she presented a pencil drawing on a 16 x 20 sketch pad.
“Eh, why—”
“That’s Mary Constantine, Toby,” Father Peterson said.
“Father Petey wanted a sketch. We came by to go over my sketches for the renovation. Got to talking.”
Stepping to the table, I looked over the drawings. “Exactly what I had in mind.”
“Modest.”
“That’s the word. Stained glass?”
“Leaded glass.”
“I like windows I can see out of.”
“It’s a church. You didn’t give me a budget.”
“Finalize the proposal once Father Peterson gives the nod, and Mackenzie Bond drafts it out. I’ll look it over.”
“He’s impossible to work with. He argues about everything.”
“Well, he’s a man.”
“Toby—”
“Finalize all your pages. I’ll have a sit-down with Mr. Goldman.”
“Thank you. That will save Logan from having to punch Mack in the mouth.”
“People.”
Andy presented the sketch again. “What do you think? Of Mary?”
Father Peterson nodded repeatedly.
“I don’t understand the question.”
Logan stepped to Peterson’s shoulder. “Andy’s a romantic.”
“I still don’t understand the question.”
“We want to invite Mary to come visit.”
“Summer. Two weeks in France. Me and Andy,” Logan said.
I tilted my head, blinking hard. “Eh, Mary Constantine is dead,” I said thoughtlessly.
“What?” Peterson asked. “How do you know?”
“Rich Serling. He went to France.” I blinked again at the three faces, settling on Peterson. “Sorry. I thought you knew. She’s been dead four hundred years.”
“That.” Peterson paused, staring at me. “Can’t be. She saved my life.”
I did my best to look thoughtful, nodding sharp, fast, and repeatedly. “I’ll bet Mr. Serling found the shrine and just stopped looking. He may have walked right past her.”
Peterson wiped a tear from his cheek. “I’ll bet.”
“That sounds right to me,” Andy said, much too excited.
Logan, still over Peterson’s shoulder, held my eyes, shaking his head.
I shrugged. “We all set then, for Friday evening?”
“All set? You bet,” Peterson answered. “I’ve got the whole thing memorized. I hate when preachers read things. I like to know, to feel, what I’m saying.”
“Tried it out on us,” Logan said. “Had Andy in tears. Did you write that?”
“I did.”
“Can we use it?” Andy asked.
“Woah,” Logan said.
“I mean, well, if and when the time comes.”
I chuckled. “Yes. If and when the time comes, you’re welcome to it. I’ll see you get a copy.”
Logan glanced over his shoulder as I secured my backpack on my shoulders.
“Andy suggested we offer you a ride.”
“I have one.”
“The bike will fit in the trunk.”
“I like to ride.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Some four hundred years. Rich Serling carried Father Peterson a mile off the battlefield. There was no woman, no cottage.”
“Father Petey just made it up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just a dream?”
“There’s nothing just about a dream.”
“We shouldn’t waste our money?”
“You and Andy going to France for two weeks would not be a waste of money.”
He glanced back at the car again. “I’m not sure we can afford—”
“I’ll sponsor the trip.”
“Really?”
“What Mr. Serling found out was little. Obviously, a cult grew out of stories about Mary Constantine. You and Andy can gather the stories, background. Anything you can find out.”
“Why?”
“I’m a curious lot. That, and I’m secretly a romantic, too.”
“I’ll discuss it with Andy.”
“Maybe you’ll even find a Mary Constantine or at least a relative.”
“Maybe.”
“One Sly McGee for the lady,” Sly McGee said as I worked onto the barstool.
“Busy night,” I observed.
“With the downstairs open again, always on the weekend.”
I placed my Edwardian top hat on the bar, fishing in my red suede bag.
McGee waved me off. “Mrs. French said everything for you is on the house.”
“Nice of her.”
“I heard the story.”
“I’m sure more of myth than reality.”
“I don’t doubt a word of it.”
“Eh, Miss Grimes,” came from behind me.
“Mr. Anderson.” I swiveled the stool.
“Bryant, please.”
“Is our circle tight, Bryant?”
“Our circle is tight, indeed.”
“Mr. Meyer.”
“He is the source of gossip, yes.”
“I did wish the story told.”
“Obviously. The wolves are at bay.”
“Wolves being wolves, we can add for now to that.”
“We can.” He turned slightly. “Will you be coming downstairs?”
“I have a meeting.”
“Mrs. French would like to see you downstairs.”
“Good. It’s good she’s getting out, seen.”
“Miss Mathers is good at what she does. We all feel better with her in the room.”
“Of those who regularly attend on Saturday who missed assassination night?”
“Oh, Miss Grimes. They are in attendance.”
“The Hasting brothers?”
“Jerry asks for you.”
“I’m sure he’d like to give me more money.” I stood, looking past Bryant.
Bryant stepped aside.
“I did not know this was fancy dress,” Chase Hastings said, working her 16 x 20 portfolio onto the bar.
“You’re fine.”
Chase wore a loose-fitting white satin shirt and tan dress slacks with black two-inch heeled pumps.
“Even knowing, I still wouldn’t have known you—Miss Grimes.”
“This room is too busy for clandestine. Is Miss Reeves upstairs?”
“She is. I think she lives there,” Bryant answered.
“Is she alone now?”
“Yes.”
I nodded to the bar. “Get Johnny to bring this up. Do you know Roscoe Frisk?”
“He’s in often. Likes a quiet table in a dark corner.”
“When he arrives, bring him up, too.”
“Mrs. French?”
“When I’m done my meeting.”
I placed a twenty on the bar.
With a swish and a clunk, the elevator door closed, leaving us in the dimly lit hallway.
“I hate elevators,” Chase breathed out through her teeth. “Reminds me of a coffin.”
“Having been dead, Chase, I assure you, an elevator is nothing like a coffin.”
She stopped abruptly. “You. Shawn. Your war room.”
Turning, I stepped close, looking slightly down, holding her eyes. “Yes.”
“I’d asked you once if you were interested in doing background and research. I knew you were good at it. I had no idea how good.”
“And?”
“Do you know the expression compelling and convincing?”
“My stock-in-trade. I like black and white facts. I’ll consider conjecture but only when it’s compelling and convincing.”
“The file on my father.”
“Too much conjecture. I’d like something more solid. I can’t see that happening short of Sierra Bradshaw rising from the grave and pointing a finger at your father’s picture in a photo array.”
“What you have—Shawn was relentless—taken as a whole, I am inclined to believe the picture the file paints. I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve covered enough cases to know we don’t have enough to bring charges.”
“The system—society too often fails us on every level.”
“It does.”
“Shawn is the reason we know for a fact that Cambridge has a rape-initiation club.”
“She didn’t say.”
“She would have if she needed to. Her rapist, a Cambridge man, recently had a happy accident in the shower.”
“I wrote the obit. Raymond Schmit. Punched up the news copy. No foul play. The medical examiner was very explicit about that.”
“Jackeline Curran.”
“Yes.”
She let out a sigh. “We’re kept out the room.”
“You’ve said. Women.”
“Yes. My mother is a brilliant woman. To him, she’s a show dog for parties. Growing up, I knew there was something terribly wrong, something going on behind that closed door.”
“Besides smoking cigars and drinking brandy.”
“I’ve always known Dad was a criminal. I just didn’t care to know it.”
“That’s why you left home.”
“One of the reasons.”
“Given his kink, I don’t understand why being gay would be an issue with him.”
She wanted to object, choosing not to. “Given the public, we’re not public.”
“You and Jannet Warring.”
Chase swallowed hard.
“You’re on our murder board. You didn’t look at your section?”
“I wanted to. I’d like to spend a week in that room.”
“Personal question. Why’s Jannet bleeding her life savings into the Old Time Dance Club?”
“My savings, too. Dad has me cut off from the family fortune.”
“For moving out?”
“And my choice of roommates. Jannet was involved in a high-profile scandal a few years ago.”
“Do you know who owns the club?”
“Davis Penn, one of my oldest friends from school. Why the interest?”
“Shawn likes to dance. She likes the club. Maybe I’ll buy the club as a gift for Shawn.”
“Davis won’t sell.”
He doesn’t own it.
“That’s too bad.”
She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. “I ran from the house because I didn’t want to get trapped under the rubble when everything came crashing down.”
“That’s why I arraigned this interview for you. I don’t want you to be in the building when I burn the Herald Post to the ground.”
“That, Miss Grimes, and I’m sure you want someone to tell the story the way you want it told.”
“Only the truth, Miss Hastings.”
In the inner accounting room of the Lark French office, I reviewed the many files, as Jennifer Reeves watched me as Chase Hastings paced in front of the spacious windows in the outer office. I glanced my wrist.
“Five to eight,” Jennifer told me.
I joined Chase, sitting, taking the news copy about local dinosaurs. “When I was a child, this was the reason I read the newspaper. Dinosaurs are old news. They’re still fun news.”
“Tell me I’m a good writer.”
“Chase, you are not just a good writer, but you are a great journalist.”
Twenty paces off, the glass door swung open.
“Artemis,” Roscoe Frisk greeted as he bounded toward us, taking charge of the room. He took Chase’s hand, “Chase Hastings. Pleased to meet you.” He turned.
“Jennifer Reeves. I’m here on an unrelated matter.”
“Mr. Frisk—”
He held a hand to Chase, glanced the table, looked at a couple of stories, nodded, gave a humming sound, and then looked at me. “Do you know whose office this is?”
I chuckled. “Christeen French. She owns the building.” I raised my right eyebrow. “I have a key.”
He swallowed hard on the implication, turning to Chase. “Artemis tells me she knows someone who was in the editorial meeting where the Post greenlighted that assassination story that was completely wrong. Is that you?”
“Eh, yes, sir.”
“Mr. Frisk is good; Frisk is better. If you accept my offer, you can call me Roscoe.”
“Me? Accept your offer?”
“Our circulation is twenty times that of the post. Maybe a hundred times—who knows? The bean counters are always blowing up the number, I think, to kiss my ass. We cover local, national, and world news. You aren’t scared of flying, are you? As you know, the Post just punches up the wire. We put talent in the thick of it. Our stories are what fluffers punch up. Our Sunday comics are better.”
“They really are,” I said with a nod.
“We’ll start you out making three times what that rag pays you, and I’ll give you actual assignments that can land you on the front page.”
Chase put her hand on her chest.
I stood. “Chase?”
She extended her arm at me. “I’m okay. I was expecting an interview.”
“I had time. Thought about it. Considered what Artemis told me—made some phone calls, decided.” He held his right hand forward. “You can start Monday. Is six o’clock too early?”
“Eh, six is fine.”
He produced an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “Only one stipulation.”
“Let me prepare my shocked face,” I said.
“Your first assignment is to write the story about the editorial failure that led to the printing of the baseless story. Write it as a feature.” He looked up, his right hand high, sweeping from left to right. “I sat in the boardroom appalled. Alone in a crowd. The only descending voice.”
Reeves plucked the envelope from Frisk’s hand. “You won’t mind me glancing this.”
“Uh, of course not. You’re a lawyer?”
“I represent the interests of Artemis in all matters.” She scanned the three pages. “As represented, lacking the first-story requirement.”
“That story is juicy. I doubt we’ll get it by legal. Chase can write it. Legal will send it back with all kinds of red chicken scratches. I’ll put two other people on it—you’re joining a great team—see what’s left when legal is happy.”
Chase watched Frisk’s eyes, taking the contract from Reeves. “I have to think about it. Do I get my own desk?”
“With a typewriter with your name on it.”
“Who has a pen?”
Frisk watched the pen glide on the contract. “Now, the Philadelphia Courier is like a Superman comic book. May I call you Lois?”
“You may not, Roscoe.”
“Looks like you lost your date,” Reeves said from the doorway.
Sitting at the desk in the inner accounting office, I glanced up from the summary profile of Cameron Hightower’s holdings. “I figured that was going to happen. I did not expect Mr. Frisk to arrive with an offer in hand. Are you offering to fill in?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Dinner. Maybe a little dancing.”
“Now I know you’re kidding.”
“I feel like a cat toying with a mouse before eating it.” I waved the three-page profile. “Mr. Frisk had the right idea. I’ve thought about it, considered it, decided. You busy? I mean, do you have a place to be?”
“I’m intrigued.” She took the chair across the table.
“I want it all.”
“What do you mean? It all?”
“Rather, I want Hightower to transfer all his holdings—right down to Rubes in the mall—to Mrs. French.”
“Everything?”
“We’ll leave him his house.”
Reeves held her breath, looking over the documents on the table. “I can’t see him agreeing to that.”
“Here’s the offer: we package his empire as a subsidiary of Mrs. French’s empire with a serious firewall between the two. We put Hightower on a short leash, giving him a salary ten percent over his expenses to continue administrating his empire.”
“I’ll draft the agreement—have it ready in time for the meeting in the morning.”
“After thirteen months, if Cameron behaves himself—not stealing as much as a dime—the assets will revert to his ownership.”
“Given the net from this so-called empire—he’s running drugs and working prostitution, too—thirteen months will be close to what Hightower stole from Mrs. French. How did you do that?”
“I’m good with numbers. I want four properties transferred to Grimes LLC: The Tower, Old Time Dance Club, Cubby Taxi, and that property in Ocean City. Never been. I’ve been told Ocean City is nice.”
“Not to revert in thirteen months.”
“Definitely not.”
Reeves pursed her lips. “He’s not going to go for this.”
“Miss Reeves. Hightower engaged his two nephews to murder Mrs. French and me, with Reginald Abner and Chief Meyer as collateral damage. As they approached the table, I killed them both—flamboyantly and with flair. Figuring Hightower a man who would not take my word for it, I plopped Mark Smith’s severed head at his feet to make my point.”
Reeves went a shade of white.
“Believe me when I say Hightower is already convinced to sign whatever agreement I want him to.”
I winked. “Put in the agreement that upon Hightower’s death, the thirteen-month agreement is void. Mrs. French keeps the properties.”
“You plan to murder him.”
“Since the moment Taxi Jane’s head hit the corner of the desk.”
“Why all this?”
“I want to strip him of his dignity, hubris, and arrogance—right down to his underwear—then, with him on his knees, put him out of my misery.”
“If you don’t watch your hubris, someone’s going to have you down on your knees in your underwear.”
“If someone puts in that much work and is that good, I’d deserve it.”
April Matters jumped when I stepped close beside her after I entered the gambling basement from the semi-secret rear door.
“April.”
“Eh, Miss Grimes.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Looks like Mrs. French is up considerably. I think they’re letting her win.”
“There’s no fun in that.”
“I guess everyone is afraid of losing their heads.”
“You made a joke. A dark joke.”
“This job, this environment is damaging me.”
“Do you want out?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“But?”
“It’s like watching a terrible movie. I bought a ticket. I’ll stay until the end.”
I symbolically clocked the room. “Balls like basket balls,” I said flatly.
“Huh? Oh. Mrs. French’s enemies.”
“The Cambridge Boys. Hail, hail. The gangs all here.”
“Toby. You’re narrowing in?”
“I’m to the point, April, where I can pick them out of a crowd by their shoes, haircuts, and that smirk—which I believe Cambridge teaches like the Army teaches the salute. Mark Smith’s severed head had that smirk, looking up on Uncle Cameron.”
“You made a dark joke.”
“I did not. You should have seen his face.”
“Which?”
I snickered. “This place has damaged you, though I would argue the ability to see the darkness hidden behind the drapery of social facade is a superpower, not damage.”
“I was not an innocent child dancing on the predawn lawn. I knew the darkness was there—missing children, my obsession.”
“Now, you see the children—”
“And who tortured and murdered them.”
“Damaged is the correct word, April, which is going to be required for what’s to come.”
“Like an avenging angel—”
“Some people believe I am.”
“If you hadn’t kept me out of the room, if I had seen you—dance, from what I’ve been told, ice and fire, I just might believe that.”
“I do a thing—in the woods. Since I was eight years old. I have a place I go. When a child, I went to escape the darkness of humanity. Now, it’s communion with my light and my dark—I can’t explain it any better than that.”
Watching out over the room, I took April’s hand. “I kindle a small fire, strip naked, and dance a bastard ballet. Soon. I’ll take you there. I can count on my one hand the number of people I’ve shared this with.”
I released her hand. “All cried. Seeing this communion is far better than watching me kill people.”
“Thank you.”
I took three steps forward as Mrs. French was raking in another pot. The five men at the table jolted back instinctively.
“Mrs. French,” I greeted.
“Artemis.”
“Mr. Abner.” I nodded to French’s right. “We need to have a conversation.”
“Damn straight we do!”
“Keep that attitude; the conversation will end abruptly with you bleeding out on the floor.”
“Well! I never!”
“I’m sure you have—repeatedly.”
Working counterclockwise, I nodded, “Mr. Forde.”
“Grimes,” he greeted back through his teeth.
“Another man with an attitude. Miss Mathers?”
April took two steps forward. “Artemis?”
“Make a note that I’m shocked.”
“Shocked. A man with attitude. Got it.” She took one step back.
“Well, well, well. A new face.” I removed my Edwardian top hat, tucking it under my right arm. “Artemis Grimes,” I announced, raising an eyebrow.
The man tried to look unbothered and dismissive. “We’re in the middle of a card—”
“Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”
Employing a Herculean effort not to look ruffled, he looked ruffled. “Larry. Larry Fine,” he spit at me, obviously wishing to add, there, happy?
I presented my left profile, my left hand cupping my ear. “Sorry. Didn't quite get that. Michael Borrows?”
He stood, his chair falling backwards. His face went red, his voice shook, the words unintelligible.
I laughed. Not a full-face laugh; a laugh like a dismissive snicker. “A word of advice, Mr. Borrows. Get your affairs in order.”
Borrows carelessly shoved money in his pockets, huffing, turning, and briskly walking to the elevator on the other side of the room.
“So that’s Michael Borrows,” Mrs. French said, pulling on her chin. “I’ve doubted he was real. Comes here—not often—I doubt again.”
“He likes to keep a low profile.”
“Obviously not low enough.”
I shrugged. “Mr. Meyer. Always nice to see a friendly face. You may put your gun away.”
“Always great to see you, Artemis. I was half-hoping for another show.”
“Only half?”
“It seems we have an empty chair,” Jerry Hastings greeted.
“Hi, Mr. Hastings. I did not forget you. As much as I’d like to take more of your money—”
Mathers pulled on my arm, turning me from the table, her cheek going to mine. “Borrows. That’s the man who murdered Jody Demarko?” she whispered.
“It is.”
“Why’s he still alive?”
“I’m fucking with him.”
“I want the file. I’ll do it.”
“Not a good idea.”
“I know.”
I turned back to the table. “Mrs. French. We’re all set for the morning.”
“That’s all I wanted to know. I wanted to hear it from you.”
“Mr. Abner. Let’s go up to the bar.”
“Let’s,” he growled, working to his feet.
Settling in at a dimly lit table in the back of the busy Grill dining room, I dominated my side of the table with my Edwardian top hat, red suede bag, and my Sly McGee.
“First off, I want to make clear—” he opened.
“First off, let me make clear I saved your life the other night.”
“French was the target.”
“Primary target. You were a secondary target.”
“Olivia.” He gnashed his teeth.
“I assumed that’s why you went to ground.”
“I went to ground because I didn’t know. That, and no one was taking my calls.”
“Once you stole all you could from Mrs. French, distributing all the ill-gotten gain to others—”
“That was Heminway’s plan.”
“To push Mrs. French out by stealing everything you could.”
“The scheme is more complicated than that; however, that’s about it.”
I put a light touch to the necklace. “You decided to squirrel some of the stolen assets away—in your wife’s name, essentially stealing what you stole.”
“You have to understand—”
I drooped my eyelids. “You have to convince me.”
He sighed. “I could rip that necklace off your neck and be on my way—”
“You’d not make it ten strides toward the door.”
“Given the stories—not only the story, but what I witnessed with my own eyes—of that, I have no doubt, which is why we’re having a conversation.”
“You really didn’t know you were a target?”
“Given the dynamic of the room, I suspected.”
“Everyone at the table, including me, was on the list.”
“You know this for a fact, or are you guessing?”
I smirked. “I was in the meeting. Olivia secretly engaged me to back up the comedy team of Smith and Smith. The plan was Chris Ferretti’s—”
“You actually met Christian Ferretti? Like you, I didn’t think he was real.”
I’m missing something.
“Do you know who Michael Borrows is?”
“Scared of you, obviously.”
“You do know what Hemingway is?”
“Sure, I work for them. Everyone does. At least, I did.”
“Where’d you go to college?”
“Is this a job interview?”
“Cambridge?”
“Seems like everyone went to Cambridge. I’m from the other side of the tracks.”
“Be specific.”
“I didn’t. That’s to say, I didn’t do college. I’ve always been good with numbers. Father had a small accounting office. I worked for him after school. Still barely not children, at a Christmas ball, Olivia mistook me for someone important—”
“I’ve noticed you favor the fine garments.”
“I do. For me, love at first sight—”
“She’s a siren.”
He stared at me for two long minutes. “She is. Exactly. How’m I doing?”
“With?”
“Convincing you?”
“Who doesn’t like a love story?”
He nodded. “Her father encouraged me to go to college.”
“Cambridge.”
“Yes.”
“I was too good with the numbers. I didn’t need college. I think she loved me, maybe. I know she married me to anger her father.”
“The rest, as they say, is history.” Again, I touched the necklace. “Jewelry because diamonds are easier to carry than one hundred fifty stamp books.”
“If we weren’t adversaries, I’d find you delightful.”
“I’m a siren.”
“You have no idea.”
“Actually, I do.” I chin-bobbed. “Why John Bailey? A friend from back when you were cooking the books?”
“He should have never given you that. The necklace isn’t his to give.”
“Funny—”
“He’s a bank. I assumed you knew, having done work for him.”
“Our relationship was different—”
“Bank. Cash to diamonds. Diamonds to cash.”
“I’ve called that money laundering.”
“We’re high class.”
“If it walks like a goose—”
“You mean duck.”
“My point exactly.”
He nodded. “John had that side business going, outside Hemingway.”
“Hustling rich men.”
“Oh, you are familiar. Last I spoke to him—about the necklace—he said he thought that may be collapsing—”
Silence fell on the table; silverware and glasses sang a faint song under the canopy of undiscernible mixed voices.
I smirked, working the necklace free. “Girl’s got to make a living.”
With equal helpings of shock and relief, Abner received the diamonds.
I narrowed my eyes. “John Bailey works for Hemingway, then?”
“Eh, well, he is Hemingway.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“He’s inside like I never was.”
“A Cambridge man.”
“Yes. Is that it? Is that why I was never accepted as one of them?”
“Yes, Reginald. You should cash out and get as far away from here as possible. These are dangerous men.”
“But you’re going to be more dangerous.” He struggled to his feet, a man who had been carrying too much nonsense for too long.
“I am.”
Leaning his thighs on the table, he looked down on me. “What’s your endgame?”
I watched his eyes, soft eyes, brown eyes like Pamala’s. “I’m going to burn it all to the ground, Mr. Abner.”
“Why? Who’s paying you?”
I stood. He backed off, not by much. My three-inch heels brought me four fingers taller, keeping his eyes, close enough to smell the bourbon. “Mr. Reginald Abner. They believe they obtain their power by raping children, or rather, virgins barely not children, in a ritual involving a cheering, abusive crowd. If I have an employer, it’s God or at least one of His higher angels.”