The Old Deep and Dark (14 page)

“Oh, sure. They came and looked it over, declared it a crime scene. That's why they put up the tape.”

Eyeing the opening, Archibald gave himself a moment to process the situation. “Was it, I mean, did you know about the gangland murders that happened down here?”

“Yup. I heard.”

“I wonder if it had something to do with that.”

“Didn't,” said Red. “I was up in Cordelia's office earlier this morning. She'd just got off the phone with a police detective. Seems the cops found a wallet and a ring in the debris under the skeleton. Belonged to the dead guy. His name was Chapman. William Edward Chapman. Disappeared in the summer of 1980.”

“Chapman. Hmm. If they've got the dates correct, then it couldn't be connected.”

“Cordelia mentioned that the cold case unit was able to track down the dead guy's sister. She told them that the family had never believed for a minute that he'd run off. They figured something terrible had happened to him.”

“How incredibly sad,” said Archibald. “And all that time, he's been buried behind that wall. Makes you wonder about human beings, doesn't it? Killing comes so easily to some of us.”

“Not sure it's always easy,” said Red. “But come it does.”

As they sat in silence, Archibald began to feel as if he were at a real bar, that the guy next to him was the average sort of stranger he'd meet and talk to, the kind of man he might have a surprisingly intimate conversation with, thanks mostly to the alcoholic lubrication, but also to the anonymity—once they got up and left the bar, they'd never see each other again. “I wish I understood what makes people do what they do,” he said, thinking about the last few days. “I don't mean just other people. I'm talking about myself, too. I try to plumb the depths, to understand my motivation, but then it occurs to me that my reasoning is much too facile. By ‘facile,' I mean—”

“I'm familiar with the word,” said Red, folding his hands, the edges of his lips curling into a smile.

“We all tell ourselves stories about how the world works. I think we lie to ourselves more than we care to admit. For instance, I've always prided myself on my ability to analyze data. But sometimes I wonder if, when it comes to my own life, my thoughts don't simply bang between two poles—cleverness and stupidity.” Struck by how professorial he sounded, he stopped himself. “Listen, Red. I am curious about something. Why were you sitting in here in the dark before I came in?”

“I like quiet places. Don't much like crowds. It's why I always stayed away from the stage upstairs.”

Archibald nodded. “Not a theater person.”

“No, I love the plays, the actors—if I can slip in after the lights have been dimmed, when everyone is seated and quiet. I guess maybe it's a certain type of agoraphobia.”

Glancing at the hole, Archibald pointed and said, “Don't you wonder what really happened there?”

“Not always smart to get too philosophical,” he said, tracing a deep gouge in the bar top with his finger, “but what we've been talking about—it reminds me of one of Aesop's fables. The one about the scorpion and the frog.”

Archibald had read the entire canon when he was a boy. “I don't recall that one.”

“It's about this real nice, helpful frog. Lived on a riverbank. He gave rides on his back so that other critters could get across the river without drowning. Lots of bad currents running through it. One day this scorpion comes up to him and says, ‘Hey there, Kermit, will you take me across?' Now the frog, he wasn't born yesterday. He says to the scorpion, ‘I'd like to, man, but how do I know you won't sting me?' The scorpion says, ‘I'm not suicidal. If I sting you, we'll both die.' So the frog let's the scorpion climb onto his back and get comfortable. Halfway across, the scorpion stings him. As they're sinking out of sight, the frog has just enough time to ask the scorpion why. Know what the scorpion says?”

“Don't remember,” said Archibald.

“He says,
‘It is my nature.'
” Red let the words hang in the air as he removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Yup,” he said, tapping one out. “Figure that story just about says it all.”

 

16

Jane's first official assignment for Raymond Lawless & Associates came that afternoon. Her father called and asked her to locate and interview as many of Jordan's local friends as she could find. He was concerned that Jordan might have contacted a lawyer before his death and thus left behind evidence of his intention to divorce. If so, and if DePetro found out about it, the fact that Kit had once again failed to inform him about something so potentially important to the case would push her to the top of the suspect list.

According to her father, no one in the family had any idea who Jordan might have contacted if he'd needed a local lawyer. With his computer gone, and no address book in evidence, her dad was left with a big question mark. In an effort to protect Kit from her own bad judgment, he wanted Jane to begin her search right away. Assuming that Jordan had confided his feelings to one or more of his friends, talking to them might be the best way to locate the divorce lawyer, if he or she existed.

Another key piece of the puzzle was the boat Jordan had sped off in late Saturday afternoon. Jane learned from her dad that it was blue and white, approximately fourteen feet long. He'd texted her a photo of the actual boat, so she had an idea what she was looking for. Once located, there was a good chance it would lead to the place where Jordan had spent his last night on earth. Finding it would be a priority for the police. At first light, two helicopters had been sent out to begin the search. Until the boat was found, Jane intended to keep her eyes open as she drove around the lake.

Her dad said he'd driven out to the lake house this morning and that it was a zoo, with friends and business staff descending from all parts of the country. Jane made a mental note to call her catering company and have half a dozen pastry trays sent over.

Before her dad had said good-bye, he'd asked her to go talk to Dahlia Grady, the woman who cleaned and restocked the Deeres' lake home twice a week each summer, and maintained the property for them during the winter months, when the family was mostly away. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

*   *   *

Jane parked her CR-V in front of a two-story Dutch Colonial and approached the front door. The wide front lawn had been raked, but the leaves from a giant maple had been swept into messy piles that, so far, had yet to be bagged. Ringing the bell, she waited on the front steps until the door was drawn back by a teenage girl wearing a red tank top, tight jeans, and a dazed look.

“Help you?” the girl asked.

“I'm looking for Dahlia Grady.”

“Mom,” the girl yelled, never taking her eyes off Jane. She fingered the gold stud in her ear, half leaning against door, taking in Jane's U of M varsity jacket. “Aren't you, like, kind of old to wear a letterman jacket?”

“Probably.”

“Then why, like, do it?”

Jane had been cleaning out a bedroom closet a few nights ago, taking out her romantic frustrations by doing something useful, when she came across the maroon and gold jacket hanging way at the back. She hadn't seen it in years. When she tried it on and realized that it still fit, she stood in front of a mirror in her bedroom and decided she looked awesome—Avi's hated word. The dogs seemed to agree. “Maybe it's, like, my vain attempt to regain my lost youth.”

The girl scowled.

Dahlia appeared behind her daughter. She was a small woman with short brown hair and wide, doll-like eyes partially hidden behind half-glasses. “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?”

Jane handed her a business card.

Adjusting the glasses, she looked it over. “You're a private investigator? Is this about Jordan Deere?”

“I'm working for the lawyer representing Kit and her family.”

“How come they need a lawyer?”

“It's pretty standard in a murder investigation,” said Jane.

“Uh-huh.”

“I wonder if I could ask you a couple questions.”

“Me? I don't know how I could help.”

“I promise I won't take much of your time.”

“Well,” she said, sweeping a lock of hair off her forehead as her curiosity seemed to get the better of her reticence. “I just made a pot of tea. Come back to the kitchen.”

As Jane followed her inside, the teenage girl returned to the couch, picked up the TV remote and changed the channel.

Dahlia poured tea into two cow-patterned mugs and nodded for Jane to sit at the table. “I'm still in shock about Jordan's death,” she said. “You use honey or lemon?”

“Plain is fine,” said Jane.

“I can't believe anyone would want to hurt that man,” she began. “This is an awful world, you know that. When bad things can happen to such good people. It's why I don't watch the news anymore. All it does is depress me.”

“How long have you known Jordan?” asked Jane.

“Eighteen—no, nineteen years. Poor Kit and the kids. They must be beside themselves with grief. I thought about calling over there, but I didn't want to bother them. I'll send flowers. This was supposed to be their special family time, you know. Jordan was so excited about the reunion.”

“Have the police contacted you?”

The question stopped her. “Why would they contact me?”

“Sometimes people know things that might help but they don't realize the information they have is important.”

She turned the mug of tea around in her hand. “I suppose. But … like what?”

Jane removed a notepad and pen from the inner pocket of her jacket. “For instance: Can you give me the names of any of Jordan's friends? Local people? The ones he invited over to the house? Or people he met for dinner. I understand he loved to play golf.”

“Oh, that man. He was always reading golf magazines. Watching golf on TV. Have you ever watched a golf match?”

“Boring?” asked Jane.

“In the dictionary? Next to the word ‘boring'? They have a golf club. Now, his friends. Okay. Let me think. There was Ann and Jerry Ott. They were over fairly frequently. I think Jerry sold him that new speedboat.”

“Do you know where they live?”

“Wayzata, I think. Oh, and Virginia Austin. She was a good friend.”

“Did they spend a lot of time together?”

“Oh, now. I know what you're thinking. No, it wasn't like that. Virginia was in her early seventies. Not sure where she lives, but I know she owned horses, stabled them on her property. Jordan would drive out and they'd ride together. That was another thing he loved. Horses.”

Jane wrote the names down. Changing gears, she asked, “Can you tell me what a typical day would be like for Jordan?”

“Well, this summer in particular, his habits were pretty regular. Up early and out for a run. Home to shower and a light breakfast. Then he'd work in his office until at least one, sometimes later.”

“Work on what?”

Lowering her eyes, she said, “That's something I wasn't supposed to know about.”

“But you did?”

“I saw a few pages. Don't suppose it would hurt to talk about it now. Looked like a novel to me.”

“He was writing a novel?”

“Think so.”

“It wasn't, say, a memoir? You sure it was fiction?”

“There was lots of dialogue, so yeah, I'm almost positive. The scene I read was about this kid—his parents had this knock-down drag-out fight, which he overheard. Took place in Kentucky, back in the sixties. And then the kid goes out and rides his horse. He confides in the horse about his parents' fight, talks about how he feels. It was kind of sad and emotional. I felt sorry for the boy.”

“Jordan grew up in Kentucky.”

“Yeah, but it wasn't a biography. It was a story.”

Jane wrote the word “novel” in her notes and underlined it. “So Jordan never said anything to you about it?”

“Not a word. That's why I figured it was a secret.”

“What did he do the rest of the day?”

“Sometimes he worked down in his music studio, but most of the time I was there he'd be gone in the afternoons.”

“Playing golf.”

“I suppose.”

“Did he stay out late? Was he a drinker? A partyer?”

“Sure, he drank, but I never saw him drunk in all the years I worked at the house. I have no idea about his evenings. I was always out of there by five.”

“What about Booker and Chloe? What can you tell me about them?”

She sighed, took another sip of tea. “Booker was a quiet kid. We never said much to each other. Chloe was friendlier, but she had a lot of problems when she was in her early teens.” She lowered her voice. “Food issues. Not sure you'd call it full-blown anorexia, but she sure did get thin there for a while. One year, she must have been fifteen, she never came to the summerhouse at all, not once. Kit told me she was in Europe, but for some reason, I never believed it. Jordan and Kit were always wonderfully generous to me. They were also very private. They really put in their time with those kids and their problems. But after their teens, they settled down. Booker went off to college on the East Coast, and Chloe went west.”

Jane wrote Chloe's name and then the word “anorexic” with question marks next to them. All of this was interesting, though likely didn't have anything to do with Jordan's murder. “What about Beverly Elliot? What did you think of her?”

Dahlia laughed. “Badass Bev. That's what the kids called her. I think it was said affectionately. Beverly was great with them. So was Jordan's old friend, Tommy Prior. Those kids may not have had parents who were home every night of the year, but they were surrounded by people who loved them. Still, I don't imagine it was easy being the Deeres' kids, growing up in a fishbowl like they did. I think it's why Jordan and Kit tried to protect them, to keep their lives as private as possible.”