For Every Evil (4 page)

“No, just stay there,” ordered Kate. She immediately stood.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Everything’s fine.”

Sophie recognized a lie when she heard one. This was strange behavior coming from Kate. Not that Sophie knew her all that well. They’d met shortly after Kate opened the gallery two years ago. Still, during the last year especially, she’d become fond of this unusual and bright young woman.

“Don’t mind me,” said Kate. “I just get uptight when I think someone’s seen a work before I’m ready to show it. I really don’t like people being back here.”

“Sure. I understand. So what did you want me to see?” Sophie hoped a change in subject might lighten her mood.

“Oh. Right. It’s over here.” She slipped an already matted and framed etching out of its brown paper wrapping and held it up. “What do you think?”

Sophie took it from her. “It’s amazing. It looks just like my house.”

“It is your house. I found it in an antique shop. The shopkeeper said some local guy did it ages ago. The year 1921 was written on the back, as well as the street address. Apparently, the artist lived in your neighborhood. That’s all I could find out.”

Sophie carried it over to a better light. “I just love it! Tell me the price.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s a gift.”

“I couldn’t! The frame alone must be worth —”

Kate put a finger to her lips. “I won’t hear another word. Sophie, you and Bram have been my best friends ever since I moved here from New York. Especially this past year. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.

This gallery has taken much too much of my time, but it’s finally on its feet. I can relax a little. I want to make more of an effort with the people who mean the most to me. This is just a small thank-you.”

Sophie was deeply touched. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you have the perfect spot for it in your house.”

“Of course I do!” She gave Kate a hug. “Bram will be so pleased.”

“Good. Now, I’ve got to get back to the reception. I’ll walk you out.” She slid the framed etching back inside its wrapper and handed it over.

Sophie tucked it lovingly under her arm. “Say, you’ll have to tell John Jacobi the good news right away.”

“Good news?” Kate closed the door and locked it behind her, pocketing the key.

“About Hale not coming tonight.”

“Oh. Right.” For one curious moment, a look of intense satisfaction flashed across her face. “I’ll be sure to do that. Don’t you forget to give my love to that handsome husband of yours. To think that in this day and age, Cary Grant still lives!”

Sophie hooted. “Only marginally, my dear. And
not
in Technicolor.”

Louie sat under a Renaissance triptych in the Micklenberg s’ living room and watched with great curiosity as a police sergeant began his interrogation of Ivy. The man was a burly Swede, mid-forties, with close cropped, curly blond hair. A notepad rested on his knee. He seemed to be writing her responses down in some kind of shorthand. Ivy was reclining on the antique chesterfield, her head propped up on a silk pillow. Hale sat next to her on a footstool.

The squad car had arrived quickly after the call to 911. After taking a series of photographs — the trajectory of the bullets seemed to be of primary importance — several officers combed the front yard looking for further evidence. If they’d found anything, they weren’t talking.

“Now, Ms. Micklenberg,” asked the sergeant, “are you absolutely certain you didn’t see anyone outside when you were standing at the window?”

Ivy passed a shaky hand over her eyes. “I’m positive. There was no one there — at least no one I could see.”

“Where was the focus of your attention? What exactly were you looking at?”

“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “I suppose the snow on the roofs across the street. Maybe a car went by. I just don’t remember. I was thinking about something else.”

“What was that?”

Ivy glanced at Hale. “My husband and I were supposed to attend a gallery opening tonight. I was wondering what was taking him so long upstairs. We were going to be late.”

The sergeant’s eyes shifted to Hale. “You were upstairs when all this was happening, Mr. Micklenberg?”

Hale adjusted his bow tie. “I was. I didn’t hear any shots, if that’s what you’re asking. I’d come down the back stairs into the kitchen to get a bit of cold chicken from the refrigerator. As I entered the dining room, I found Louie and my wife on the floor. They’d turned off all the lights.”

“This was after the shots had been fired?”

Hale nodded.

“Do you own any firearms, Mr. Micklenberg?”

“Me? Absolutely not.” He seemed insulted. “I don’t need them. The security in this house is excellent. As you may have noticed, we own a great deal of rare artwork. I make sure all my investments are protected.” He glanced up at his favorite Rauschenberg, which hung like a huge exclamation point on the dark green wall. He’d placed it there lovingly, next to a highly prized Byzantine icon.

“What about that gate house behind the main house?”

“What about it?”

“Do you use it?”

Hale allowed himself a small smile. “Why, yes. It’s my office and ray showroom. I have more fine art in there than many museums. The security is even tighter.”

The sergeant got up and conferred briefly with one of his men. After they were finished, the officer left through the front door.

“What’s going on?” asked Hale.

The sergeant resumed his seat. “We noticed some footprints in the snow leading from the front yard back toward the gate house. I just want to make sure one of my men checks it out.”

Hale shot to his feet. “I’m going with him!”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Micklenberg.”

Before anyone could stop him, Hale bolted into the kitchen and out the back door.

“Louie,” called Ivy, ignoring her husband’s hasty retreat, “will you do me a favor?”

“Of course.” Louie stood and approached the couch, glad for the chance to stretch his long legs.

“Will you call Max Steinhardt? My doctor. I want him to come over right away.”

“The paramedic who was here earlier said you were doing just fine,” said the sergeant, his tone a rough attempt at being comforting.

“I’m a diabetic,” replied Ivy. “And I’m on several medications. I want my own doctor.” She said the words with great firmness. “Louie, you’ll find his home number and the number of his service on the wall next to the kitchen phone. Try his home first. And don’t take no for an answer. I mean that.” Her mouth set angrily.

Louie understood her irritation. Doctors could be a pain in the ass. His wife, Sarah, had seven in periodic attendance. Not that they did anything particularly brilliant. They couldn’t even seem to make her comfortable. “I’ll do my best.”

“Get him here!” she shot back.

The sergeant looked up, startled by the vehemence in her voice.

A bit more calmly, she added, “I need him.”

“Of course. I’ll only be a minute.” Louie quickly ducked into the kitchen. On a whim as he passed the refrigerator, he peeked inside. Sure enough, there was the plate of cold chicken, several bites taken out of one of the drumsticks. At least Hale hadn’t been lying about that Even so, something about the entire evening had struck a faintly discordant note. He couldn’t put his finger on just what it was.

Standing now in front of the phone, he found Max’s number right where Ivy said it would be. He’d met the good doctor a couple of times over the years, finding him a bit too athletic for his liking. Max had the complete gym body, and from what Louie could discern, the complete gym mind. The man should have been a sports doctor instead of a surgeon. Max Steinhardt was close to sixty, but looked ten years younger. Maybe, thought Louie, this animosity was simple jealousy: Louie looked and felt every day of his fifty-four years.

After several rings, Max’s voice answered. “Steinhardt.”

“Hello. This is Louie Sigerson.”

“Who?”

Louie took a deep breath. “I’m at the Micklenberg home. There’s been a … shooting. Ivy Micklenberg would like you to come over immediately. She’s unhurt, but very upset.”

Silence.

“Dr. Steinhardt?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“She insists that you come. I think your presence would be calming. Right now she needs that badly.”

“Are you sure she wanted you to call
me
?

“Does she have another doctor?”

“Many.”

“Look, she specifically asked me to call you. And she said not to take no for an answer.”

A pause. “I see. Is
anyone
hurt?”

“No. The police are here right now.”

Again, silence.

“Can I tell her you’re coming?” Louie didn’t understand the reticence. Unless … Steinhardt was known for being a ladies’ man. Of course. He probably wasn’t alone.

“Yes. All right, I’ll be over shortly. Tell Ivy not to take anything until I come. Hale has a medicine chest that would put a pharmacy’s to shame.
I’ll
prescribe a sedative, if I determine she needs one. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Keep her off her feet and warm. And tell her — Oh, forget it. I’ll tell her when I see her.”

“Fine.” Louie put the receiver back in its cradle. What a wonderfully caring man. He returned to the living room. Ivy’s interrogation was still in progress.

“Do you work outside the home?” asked the sergeant.

“I’m a professor of art history at Morton College.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Fourteen years.”

Louie could tell Ivy was tired of answering questions. She barely looked at the officer. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the shattered windowpanes.

“Do you have any reason to suspect someone might want to harm you?”

Ivy stopped and looked up as soon as she saw Louie resume his seat. “Is Max coming?”

Louie nodded.

She seemed to relax a bit. “Good. Now, what was the question? Oh, yes. Do I have any enemies?” She appeared to give it some thought. “No, not that I can think of. I’m not a young woman, Sergeant, so I suppose I’ve made my share over the years. But I can’t conceive of someone —” A ringing phone interrupted her. “Louie … sorry.” Ivy raised a limp arm. “Would you be a dear and get that?”

Again, he rose and walked into the kitchen. He grabbed the receiver before the answering machine could switch on. “Micklenberg residence.”

Silence.

“Hello?” He waited for several seconds. Finally a young boy’s voice began to speak.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

Without pause, the boy continued, almost as if the words had been recorded.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

The boy just kept talking. Finally the line clicked.

“Damn,” muttered Louie. Angrily he hung up and stood leaning against the counter, staring blankly at a bowl of oranges placed decoratively in the center of the kitchen table. Everything in this god-awful museum of a house looked like a still life. How could Ivy stand it? Out in the living room, he could hear her calling his name.

“I’m coming,” he hollered. By the time he’d returned to the room, his anger had been replaced by uneasiness. Could a phone call like that, coming on the heels of tonight’s shooting incident, be a coincidence?

“Who was it?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What did they want?”

He scratched his head, giving a self-conscious laugh. “You aren’t going to believe this.”

The sergeant looked up from his notepad.

“See, I … uh … remember the verse from when I was a little boy. It’s a nursery rhyme.”

“What is?” asked Ivy, growing more impatient with each less than satisfactory answer. “What are you talking about?”

“The boy on the phone. It sounded like a recording. He said, ‘For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none. If there be one, seek till you find it. If there be none, never mind it.’ “ Louie felt like a school kid reciting his lessons. He looked up, realizing everyone was watching.

The room had become still.

“That’s it,” said Louie, giving Ivy a helpless shrug.

After a long minute, she asked, “Do you think it was a prank call?”

“I don’t know.”

At that same moment a red-faced and puffing Hale trudged back into the room, followed by two officers. “Everything checks out fine,” he said triumphantly, throwing himself into a chair. “No one tried to break into the gate house.” He looked from face to face. “Say, what’s going on now? Did I miss something?”