The Old Deep and Dark (17 page)

“Of course.”

“You're very kind.”

“I am,” said Cordelia. She waited for the woman to pull herself together, then helped her up and led her to the elevators.

 

18

Jane was torn. She had a number of leads to pursue in order to locate Jordan's friends. On the other hand, stacks of work awaited her at the Lyme House. More critically, she'd put off an important meeting with her new sous chef.

Peer Valdimarsson was a Minnesotan who had spent the last ten years working his way through restaurants in Sweden, Denmark, Iceland, and Norway. His interest and knowledge of Nordic cuisine was why Jane had hired him. In less than two weeks, he'd presented her with dozens of new menu options that had taken her thinking about Scandinavian cuisine and turned it on its head. Since this was a new direction for the Lyme House, Jane had decided to offer an eight-course tasting menu and bring it out during the holiday season.

So far, they'd agreed on seven courses: a pork belly in a birchwood bouillon with roasted barley and watercress; duck eggs, wild garlic flowers, and sautéed radish; herring in red currant juice, elderflowers, beetroot, and wild mushrooms; bone marrow, chestnuts, warm chocolate, served with rye bread; and cardamom aebleskiver, roasted hazelnuts, and milk ice.

Jane needed no more than an hour of Peer's time to come to a decision on the final offering. She met with him before dinner that night and together they worked out the complete list, celebrating with an ice-cold shot of aquavit when they were done. They both wanted the Nordic cuisine tasting menu, if possible, to go up by the week before Thanksgiving. Some local sourcing still had to be worked out. This special tasting menu was something that customers would need to order a day in advance—also something new for the Lyme House.

Feeling buoyed and excited, Jane spent the next hour up in the main dining room, meeting and greeting customers. She stood briefly near the pass in the kitchen and watched the tickets fly in and the food, each plate a work of art, fly out. Business was good, even better than it had been before the recession. She felt a rush of gratitude mixed with a sense of pride as she walked back down to her office.

Her cell phone rang shortly after eight.

“Jane Lawless,” she said, saving the computer page she'd been working on.

“Hello?” came a tentative voice. “This is Dahlia Grady—the Deeres' cleaning woman.”

“Oh, hi.” She'd been hoping she would hear from Dahlia tonight.

“Do you have a pen and a piece of paper? I've got the name of that lawyer who handled my divorce. The one Jordan recommended.”

“Wow, great,” said Jane. Pulling a notepad close, she said, “Shoot.”

“Joji Mura. Really great guy.” She repeated the number. “His office was in Hopkins. Not sure if it's still there.”

“Wonderful,” said Jane. “Much appreciated.”

“I wish I could do more. I still can't believe anyone would want to hurt Jordan.”

“This may help.”

Dahlia seemed to want to talk, to process what had happened. “I don't believe I've ever known anyone who seemed more alive. It's just so hard to think he's gone, that I'll never see him again.”

Jane sat back and mostly listened. They spoke for the next twenty minutes, until Dahlia said she had to go make sure her daughter had done her homework. Jane thanked her again and said good night.

*   *   *

The time had come for Cordelia to drive out to Frenchman's Bay and begin her due diligence at Chez Deere. Jane had asked her to insert herself into the investigation in her typically subtle manner, and that's just what she intended to do.

The first order of business, as always, was to decide what to wear to the occasion. Something subdued but hopeful. Something vibrant without being festive. Something soothing, but not maternal. Elegant, but not flamboyant. It occurred to Cordelia, as she pawed through her closet, that she could be describing her appearance as a fine wine. How appropriate.

Tossing a few frocks onto her bed, she concluded that red was perhaps too much. Yellow too hard on the eyes of the weeping. Black just
too
depressing. Green much too buoyant. Purple, the color of royalty was, like the Wee Bear's bed in the Goldilocks fairy tale, just right. A purple cape cardigan over tight black jeans and calf-high leather boots. Perfection itself.

The trip out to the lake was uneventful, except for an excited phone call from Hattie informing her that she'd finally received her first issue of
Sky and Telescope
magazine. It was hard for Cordelia to get worked up about these matters, so she simply let her little niece enthuse for a few minutes and then, as she approached the Deeres' lighted front gate, she said she had to go, that Bolger would give her a kiss good night from Cordelia and that they would have French toast—Hattie's favorite—for breakfast in the morning.

Cordelia sailed past the security guard with a simple wave of her driver's license. Kit had given the hired muscle a list of people who were allowed in. Cordelia had expected to see throngs of reporters and camera crews attempting to scale the walls. To her amazement, the road leading up to the gate was dark and quiet.

Chloe met Cordelia at the front door.

“Mom said you were coming,” she said, giving her a welcoming hug.

Since she had on a coat, Cordelia asked her if she was going out.

“Booker's pulling his car around. We're off to see a movie. I hope that doesn't sound cold.”

“Depends on the movie,” said Cordelia.

“Funny.” She didn't laugh. “I've cried so much in the last two days I'm not sure I've got any tears left in me.”

“Everyone grieves in their own way. Don't let anyone make you feel bad or wrong about your process. When I lost my mother, my feelings of loss came in waves. I could go for days without any sadness at all, and then I'd be driving home from a store and I'd have to pull over because my eyes had turned into water faucets.”

Chloe gave Cordelia another hug.

“You know how sorry I am about what happened. Any time you need to talk, just give me a call. That goes for Booker, too.”

Booker honked. Chloe thanked her and left.

Cordelia spent the next few minutes wandering through the first floor. Most of the rooms were abuzz with activity of one form or another, filled with men wearing ties and dress slacks and women in business drag. She asked a burly young man in a western-style shirt stuffing the last bite of a sandwich into his mouth if he knew where Kit was.

“In the kitchen,” he said.

Cordelia knew the house well. In a way, the reality of Jordan's death hadn't really hit until this moment. She was used to seeing him bustling from room to room, offering refills on drinks, encouraging guests to get something to eat, talking animatedly, laughing. He'd been a beautiful man. Vigorous. Charismatic. Perhaps a little too fixated on his career, but then most successful people were. His music, especially the lyrics to some of his ballads, reflected a sensitive side that wasn't always apparent in normal conversation.

Unable to find Kit in the kitchen, Cordelia walked into the breakfast room. It was her favorite place in the entire house, with its long row of small-paned windows facing east toward the bay. In the morning, it was filled with sunlight. Tonight, however, the room felt shrouded in gloom.

Kit sat at a table made out of old, weathered wood planks, a bottle of wine and a half-filled glass in front of her. A weak wedge of light from the kitchen fell across the far end of the room. “I wondered if you were still coming,” she said. She didn't look up.

Cordelia pulled out one of the captain's chairs and sat down. “Tell me how you're doing—and don't give me the same bullshit you give everyone else.”

The comment caused a brief smile. “I've been better. Let's leave it at that.”

“Anything new from the police?”

“They were here again a couple of hours ago. Did more searching.”

“And? Did they find anything?”

“Booker said he saw one of the uniformed officers put a plastic bag in the trunk of a squad car. I have no idea what was in it.”

“Have you talked to the lead detective? Can't remember his name.”

“DePetro. No. Not today. The less I see of him, the better.” She pressed her hands to her eyes. “God, but I miss him. It's crazy, you know? Days would go by and I wouldn't even think about him. His presence in my life was such a given—like beautiful background music. Now—”

“This is different.”

“You think?”

“How are the kids handling it? I saw Chloe when I came in. She looked pretty rough.”

“Chloe wears her heart on her sleeve. Always has. She's been gutted by everything that's happened. I'm
so
worried about her. We've gone on several walks together. She's eating erratically, and you know what that means. I'm terrified this is going to kick off another episode. I tried to broach the subject, but she cut me off. Said she was okay. Of course she's not okay. Cordelia—” She hesitated. “This is hard to admit, but I'm scared. I'm her mother. I should know what to do, how to reach her. But I don't. Maybe Jordan was right. Maybe I did insist on impossible standards when she was growing up. I know I haven't always been the best mother, the best example—”

“Does she seem depressed?”

“She's always a little depressed, but she's on medication. She sees a therapist regularly. I guess, as long as she's still talking, as long as she comes out of her room to be with the family, then we're okay. It's just … it's all so hard.” She took several swallows of wine. “Booker, he's another story entirely. It's like his dad's death hasn't even fazed him. I don't understand it.”

“He's always been a stoic.”

“Yeah, you're right, but I'm his mother. Why can't he let his guard down with me? I've been trying to spend private time with both of my children, to be open with them about my feelings. At the same time I've been trying my best to hold it together because there's so much to do. Statements to the press. Funeral arrangements. Papers to be executed and signed. Business decisions. And Tommy, he's been in a bourbon haze ever since Sunday morning. We need him to help us make decisions. He should be the one talking to Jordan's recording label. Get this: The company wants to put out a memorial CD. Pisses me off, you know? They can't even give us five minutes to grieve before they move in and start figuring out a way to make money off the situation. I've had half a dozen freelance writers contact me wanting to get my permission, and my help, to write Jordan's authorized biography. One guy is already working on a true crime angle. You shake a tree in this land of opportunity and flocks of slimy, money-hungry hustlers fall out. I'm not against making a living, but this is way beyond the pale.”

Cordelia's gaze drifted toward the windows, to the distant lights across the bay. “It's hard to take this all in, to believe it's happening.”

Kit released a quick, resigned breath. “I'm glad you're here. It helps to talk.”

“Did Jordan leave a will?”

“Everything's in trust. The money is primarily divided between me and the kids. There are a few substantial personal bequests. One to Tommy. A few charities. I inherit the house in Nashville. Chloe gets this one. Booker inherits the horse ranch.”

“What on earth is Booker going to do with a horse ranch?”

Kit glanced over. “Jordan's last little joke. I find it hilarious.”

Hilarious or nasty, thought Cordelia. “And how's Beverly doing?”

“She's—” She shrugged. “Beverly.”

“The good-hearted grump. Is that a cliché? Like the hooker with a heart of gold?”

“Might be. But it's who she is.”

“I can't remember. How long have you known her?”

Kit sighed. “Since we were kids. And then, during Beverly's first year at the U—the same year I was crowned Princess Kay of the Milky Way—I used to crash at her apartment when I couldn't get home. Eventually, I moved in with her and her roommate. It was fun. We were young. We knew a lot of the same people. She quit school to get a job her junior year. Just couldn't stand all the studying. I didn't blame her. It wasn't for me, either. By that time, I was doing local theater, starting to make a name for myself.”

“Did someone mention my name?” asked Beverly, coming through the door carrying a tray of dessert pastries. “Anybody hungry? I've got a few left.”

“This is crazy,” said Kit. “I'm hiring a caterer first thing tomorrow morning. You're going to run yourself ragged cooking for all these people.”

“I didn't make any of this,” said Beverly, setting the tray down on the table. “Jane Lawless sent half a dozen boxes of the stuff over from her restaurant, along with four of their signature cheesecakes.”

“That was incredibly kind,” said Kit.

“I have great taste in friends,” said Cordelia.

Kit held up the wine bottle. “I'm happy to share.”

“I'm fine,” said Cordelia. She hadn't seen Beverly in several years, and wasn't surprised to find that she looked much the same as always—a walking, talking advertisement for Cabela's. Cordelia freely admitted that she was a snob when it came to clothing. Not that she was against the “Cabela's look,” just not 24-7. Tonight, Beverly was swathed in her usual construction-worker chic: olive-green canvas pants and heavy-duty plaid flannel shirt. With her blunt-cut gray hair, and deeply tanned skin, she gave the impression of a handsome older butch, someone who didn't care what others thought of her as long as she was comfortable. Cordelia generally took the same position. She'd always been on the side of people who'd figured out what was right for them and strode off proudly into the world in their black Dracula capes or hunting-gear drag.