Ellipsis (16 page)

She left me to gaze around the library, at books I had read and others I should have, at souvenirs of her trips throughout the world with Stuart, at a rolltop desk I'd coveted from the moment I saw it, at attractive art and tasteful furnishings. At times like these, I get depressed about the things I don't have in my life, until I remember what such things cost in terms of pride and dignity and freedom. Then I cheer up till the next time.

When Millicent returned, she wore an air of self-satisfaction that puzzled me. “What?” I asked her.

“I called the hospital. They said Chandelier is critical but not grave.”

“Good.”

“And then I called my neighbor.”

“Why?”

“You'll see.”

I looked at my watch. “I should be going.”

“Not yet. Please.”

I didn't know what was up so I expressed my worst fear. “Is something wrong with Eleanor?”

Millicent smiled. “Eleanor's fine. Terrific, as usual. She's going to start dance lessons next month.”

“Is that wise? I've known some ballerinas. Dancing's pretty hard on the body.”

“Don't worry, silly. It's not really dancing. It's movement therapy.”

“What does she need therapy for?”

Millicent wrinkled her lips in resistance to my question. “You sound like my mother. It's just so she'll do more with her body than she gets to do at school.”

I was too tired to go into it. “You're the boss, but I don't see why a five-year-old kid needs some sort of therapy just to—”

The doorbell cut off my cry of impotence and insecurity and Millicent hurried to answer it. When she returned, she was followed by a distinguished-looking gray-haired gentleman wearing a shiny burgundy running suit and carrying a black bag. “Marsh, this is Kyle Bronson, my neighbor.
Doctor
Kyle Bronson.”

I stood up and shook his hand. As we muttered the usual bunk, I figured out what Millicent was up to. “I don't need a—”

“You most certainly do,” Millicent dissented firmly. “Roll up your sleeve or I'll do it for you.”

I did as directed and the doc looked me over. The burns were mostly minor, with some second-degree on my hands and wrists and first-degree on my forehead and cheeks. He wanted me to go to the hospital for a more thorough exam, but when I told him I didn't have time, he put some ointment on the worst parts and bandaged them up. The ointment made me feel so good that I offered to pay him. He told me not to be silly. After some chitchat with Millicent about a man down the block who had shingles, Dr. Bronson went back home.

“Thanks,” I said when he'd gone.

“You need to take better care of yourself.”

I grinned my wolfish grin. “It's more fun when you do it for me.”

She colored again and I was sorry I'd pushed the envelope, but on the theory that it was the flush of pleasure, not insult, I took her hand and kissed it. “You're the best.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

“And I appreciate it.”

As the silence grew uncomfortable, I stood up. “Tell Eleanor hi.”

“Of course.”

“And Stuart.”

“Surely.”

“I'd better go.”

“Do you have to so soon?”

“I think I'd better.”

She nodded as though she understood what I meant, which was that we shouldn't tempt fate any longer than we had to.

“Well …” she said.

“Well …”

“Tell Chandelier I'm so sorry.”

“I will if they let me see her. For both of us.”

“Don't blame yourself, Marsh. Please.”

“Have to. The only other guy I can blame is dead.”

I gave Millicent a peck on the cheek and she gave me a dispassionate squeeze and I decided she might not be as enamored of me as I thought she was. I decided that was just as well. Then I headed back across the bay and got there in half the time of my previous trip.

It was a little before eight when I parked at the hospital, and a little after that by the time I found my way to intensive care. Lark McLaren was sitting in the visitors' room looking wan and lifeless, as though she'd survived an explosion herself.

When she saw me, she rushed to embrace me, but stopped when she saw the bandages. “Mr. Tanner. How are you? I was worried that maybe you were badly hurt as well.”

“I'm fine,” I exaggerated. “How's Chandelier?”

Lark tugged me to a chair and sat me down. “Pretty bad, I think. They haven't told me much, but there're third-degree burns on her hands and face and legs; second-degree almost everywhere else. She's still in shock. They say she won't be out of danger for days.”

“Burns are tricky,” I said. “But that doesn't mean she won't make it. Have you seen her?”

She shook her head. “They won't let me. But she thinks it was Mickey.”

“How do you know?”

“She told one of the ambulance attendants she thought her husband had done it.”

I shook my head. “I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Mickey's better off with her alive and earning big bucks, which I told him she was about to do. He's not in her will, is he?”

She shook her head. “No way.”

“Who is?”

“In the will?”

I nodded. “Inheritance makes a nice motive. It says so in all the mystery novels.”

Lark frowned. “All I know is what she told me once, which was that I would get a small bequest—fifty thousand—and Amber and Sally would, too, and the rest of the staff would get something similar though not as large. And the bulk of her estate would be split between Violet and the library.”

“The city library?”

“Yes.”

“What's Chandelier's net worth?”

“I don't know, exactly; she has a zillion accountants keeping track. But I think it's between twenty and thirty million.”

I laughed. “I think we can add the librarian to the list of suspects.”

Lark grasped my hand, then released it when she felt my twinge. “I don't know what to do. I feel helpless just sitting here, but I'm afraid if I leave, something awful will happen.”

“All you can do is wait. And you can do that just as well at home.”

Her cell phone rang. She took it out of her purse, then turned it off. “The publisher keeps calling. So does the press. So do her fans.”

“Tell them everything's on hold and you'll make a statement when there's something to say. Tell the doctors in here to get the best burn people in the business on the case. Tell Amber not to leave town till I talk to her. And then go home and get some sleep.”

“I've already done all that,” Lark said, “except for Amber.” Then she shook her head miserably. “Who could
do
such a thing?” she asked rhetorically, not really expecting an answer.

“I don't know,” I said truthfully, “but if you've got no objections, I'm going to try to find out.”

Ever the faithful employee, Lark frowned uneasily. “I'm not sure I can authorize the expenditure until Chandelier can—”

“There won't be an expenditure of anything but time. It comes under the category of saving face.”

“Won't the police be unhappy if you interfere in their case?”

“I won't be interfering; I'll be aiding and abetting.”

Chapter 16

When I got home, the telephone was ringing. “Were you there?” she asked breathlessly. “Are you all right? What happened? Is Chandelier Wells going to make it?”

I chuckled at the torrent of words formed in questions I couldn't answer. “I was there, I'm fine, Chandelier's critical but not grave, and I have no idea what happened except for some reason her car exploded.”

Jill Coppelia paused to take it all in. “You're sure you're all right?”

“A little crisp in spots. But, yes.”

“Crisp from what?”

“I forgot you're not supposed to play with fire.”

“It was really a car bomb?”

“I think so.”

“You weren't
in
the car, I hope.”

“Nope.”

“Where were you?”

“Inside Steinway Books.”

“The news said something about a driver.”

“Chandelier and her driver were in the car when it blew. The driver didn't make it.”

“Did you know him?”

“Not well.”

“But why on earth did it
happen?
Who had reason to kill Chandelier?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“A nut, I'll bet. Some fool who was sure God wanted Chandelier up in heaven with Him. Or down in hell with the devil.”

“Maybe. But all kinds of people have a bone to pick with famous writers, it turns out.”

“What kind of bone?”

“Ten minutes before the bomb went off, a young woman stood up at the reading and accused Chandelier of stealing her work.”

“How would that happen?”

“Chandelier used to teach. The woman used to be her student.”

“But still.”

“But still,” I agreed.

She paused to let things simmer back toward our version of normal. “Since you're all right, do you want to come over for a nightcap?”

“I definitely do, but I probably shouldn't.”

“Why not?” she asked, not entirely without frost.

I laughed at her new mood. “Do you think it's at all significant that you cast a bad light on every ambiguous statement I make?”

This time her tone was rectitudinous. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You always think I'm up to something and I usually never am.”

“That's nonsense.”

“I hope so.”

“So are you coming over?” she asked again, still borderline huffy.

“I got kind of cooked, actually. I should let the medicine do its work.”

“You went to the hospital?”

“No. Millicent Colbert's neighbor is a doctor.”

“Millicent.”

“Yes.”

“You were there.”

“Yes.”

“Tonight.”

“Yes.”

“After the bombing.”

“Yes.”

She paused. “You and Millicent make me nervous.”

“I don't go to see Millicent, I go to see Eleanor.”

“Not entirely.”

“Yes, entirely.”

“Liar.”

“Jealous witch.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“God, I love these mature conversations,” she groused.

“You're a little touchy this evening, Ms. Coppelia.”

“What if I am?”

“I'd like to know why.”

Here came huffy again. “Maybe it's because I'm in a pantload of trouble and you can help me get out of it but you haven't lifted a finger.”

“With the grand jury, you mean.”

“That's what I mean, all right, Sherlock.”

I don't love it when she calls me Sherlock. “I hate to break it to you, but helping you with the grand jury isn't necessarily my highest priority.”

Her response was pouty and hurt. “I'm afraid I see that all too clearly.”

“But helping our relationship is.”

“Ha.”

“It's true, whether you believe it or not.”

“Well, good. I'm glad that what we have, whatever that is, is important to you.”

“It is. Definitely. So I'm going to give you a name.”

“What kind of name?”

“A cop. A guy who knows something about the Triad. Not everything. But something.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Wally Briscoe. He's a detective. Last I knew he was working out of Northside.”

“Does he know you?”

“Yes, which means his name can't have come from me.”

“No problem. So what's this Wally Briscoe got to sell?”

“Wally was in the Triad for a while.”

“How do you know?”

“Charley told me.”

“Ha. I
knew
Charley told you more than you—”

“Leave it alone. Please.”

She stifled her usual dissension. “In the Triad for how long?”

“I don't know. But you can probably get all he has—he should be easy to break down.”

“Why?”

“Because Wally's that kind of guy. And because he'll want to do something for Charley, even postmortem.”

She hesitated long enough for me to begin having regrets. “I guess a ‘thank you' is in order,” she said at last.

“Then so is a ‘you're welcome.'”

Her voice assumed its normal timbre, which was somewhere between friendly and licentious. “I'll try to come up with a more suitable token of my appreciation.”

“I'll look forward to it.”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“Are you going to look for whoever blew up that car?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be careful?”

“Yes.”

“I'd appreciate it. Well, I should get back to work.”

“Wally's not a bad guy,” I said before she could hang up. “Do me a favor and go easy on him. Come to think of it, immunity would be a good way to go.”

“I may not have the time for easy or the authority to grant immunity. But I'll do what I can.”

“Thanks.”

When I hung up, I was feeling as bad as I'd felt since the night Charley Sleet had died from a bullet from my gun. Love can make you miserable, I guess, and make you do things you shouldn't be doing. It's why Hallmark cards and country music are thriving.

I was thinking about the best way to get some sleep in light of my burns and my bandages when I heard a car pull up outside the building. Normally I wouldn't pay attention, but the bomb had excited my nerves to the point of paranoia, so I shut off the lights and went to the window and looked out.

A taxi had pulled to the curb. The driver was lugging a suitcase out of the trunk and the passenger, a woman, was laboring to get out of the backseat without help. By the time both the suitcase and the woman were standing on the sidewalk, I had recognized the passenger as Pearl. When the cabbie drove off without helping her inside with her bag, I put on my shoes and went down.