The Old Deep and Dark (8 page)

“Oh. I thought, I mean, it occurred to me—”

“You assumed it was another problem with Chloe.”

“I wasn't sure. I don't like to jump to conclusions.” Studying her for a moment, he said, “Okay, so let me ask you something. If it's too personal, I entirely understand. Has Jordan been unfaithful?”

The question was so ludicrous, she had to stop herself from laughing out loud. “Ray, I hope you won't judge us, but Jordan and I have had an open relationship from the very beginning.”

He nodded—and kept on nodding. “I see.”

“I know people don't expect it from us—with our squeaky clean image and all. I mean, we love each other, but we've never been exclusive.”

“Uh-huh.”

Time for Ray to pause for a little attitude adjustment, thought Kit. When he looked at her with new interest, she found herself thinking deeply wicked thoughts. She wondered if he was involved with anyone at the moment. “Let me put a hypothetical question to you,” she said, playing with a tassel on one of the pillows. “What if Jordan had written something—something I don't want anyone to see. And what if he insisted on making it public? Is there any way I could stop him?”

“Again, this isn't the area of my expertise,” said Ray, adjusting his glasses. “Is it true? Whatever it is that he's written?”

“Some of it.”

“But not all.”

“No, definitely not all.”

“So you're saying it's libelous?”

“I guess … right. It's libel. But if I sue him, will the content become public knowledge?”

“That's a hard one,” said Ray. “You would normally expect a certain amount of privacy, but with people as public as you and Jordan, it might prove difficult. I assume you have reporters sniffing around all the time looking for dirt.”

“So there's no way to prevent him from going public with it?”

“You'd need to put that question to a libel attorney.”

She shifted in her seat. “Then a different question. Jordan and I keep separate bank accounts. It's been that way from the start of our marriage. He makes millions, so he pays for all of our living expenses—the houses, the cars, the clothes. What I've earned has been invested. I took a huge hit in the stock market like everybody else a few years back. I pulled much of my money out, which was probably a stupid thing to do. I'm not poor, but I'm hardly wealthy, the way I am with Jordan as my husband. So the question is this: Will the fact that we've kept our finances separate hurt me in a divorce?”

“Where's your legal residence?” asked Ray.

“Tennessee.”

“Again, you'd need to consult a divorce lawyer from your state. There's no real way I can answer that for you.”

“But can't you give me an educated guess?”

He held her in his blue-eyed stare. “It could be a problem. Have you and Jordan considered counseling?”

She couldn't help herself. The idea made her giggle. “Not going to happen.”

“At least you haven't lost your sense of humor.”

“If I have anything to say about it, I'm not going to lose anything.”

“That sounds ominous.”

She offered a smile. Nothing more.

“Look, I'm not trying to rush you, or change the subject, but I'm starving. I didn't have any lunch today and all I had for breakfast was toast and coffee. I don't suppose we could continue this conversation over an early dinner.”

“Why, Ray, I'd love that,” she purred. Her first thought was Beverly—how she could ditch her. Her second thought was the dinner Jordan had planned at the lake house. It suddenly occurred to her that she could use one to take care of the other.

As they came out of the sunroom, Beverly, who'd been sitting in a chair in the hallway, stood up. Ray continued on to the front foyer, while Kit pulled Beverly aside. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Drive back to Frenchman's Bay and tell Jordan I won't be joining the family for dinner.”

“Really. Why? He's going to be upset.”

“And I should care … because?”

The evil gleam in Beverly's eyes told Kit that not only would Beverly go, she'd enjoy being the bearer of bad tidings.

“How will you get home?” asked Beverly.

Archibald had dropped them off at a rental car company earlier in the afternoon. Both Kit and Beverly had cars of their own back at the house, but because they were staying in town, at least for a few hours, they'd needed a set of wheels to get them around, and then later, out to the lake.

“Ray said he'd drive me, so go ahead and take the rental. We're going to grab a bite to eat and talk a little more.”

Beverly bent closer. “Did you get any answers?”

“A few. I'll tell you all about it later tonight.”

She nodded. After saying her good-byes to Ray, she took off out the front door, though not before offering Kit a conspiratorial wink.

As Ray helped Kit on with her coat, Cordelia burst in, with Jane close behind.

“I need a stiff drink,” she cried, her cheeks flushed, her auburn curls corkscrewing around her face. She tore off her cape and tossed it over a chair. “What a day. What … a … freakin' day!” Glancing at Kit's coat, she said, “You going somewhere?”

“Well, I—”

“Come with me,” she ordered, seizing Kit's hand and dragging her off toward the back of the house.

Kit glanced over her shoulder, giving Ray a helpless look.

“A glass of wine might be nice,” he called after them.

*   *   *

“You know, Dad,” said Jane, trying not to get swallowed up by the feather cushion on a wing-back chair in the main hall. “Cordelia didn't mean wine. She meant black cherry soda.”

Ray shook his head and groaned. “Should have known. Maybe Kit can persuade her to offer the rest of us something a bit more palatable.” He struggled to get comfortable on his own feather cushion. “What's Cordelia so upset about?”

Halfway through the afternoon, Jane had given up any hope of returning to her restaurant. The uniformed cops who'd initially come to the theater had eventually called in a cold case team. She should have simply left, but like Cordelia, she was both repelled and fascinated by the scene.

Jane took a few minutes to explain about Gilbert and Hilda King—about the speakeasy in the basement of the theater, the gangland shooting, and the bricked-up wall.

“At one point, I jokingly said that we'd probably find a dead body behind it.”

Her dad grimaced.

“There was a bullet hole right in the center of the skull.” She didn't mention Red Clemens or the fact that he'd appeared— conveniently?—out of the blue right when they'd discovered the brick wall. When the police first came in, Jane looked around for him, thinking that, since he'd worked at the theater for so many years, he might be a source of information. She never saw him the rest of the afternoon.

“Any idea who the skull belonged to?” asked her father.

“A guy on the forensics team thought it was a man, though he said they'd have to perform some tests to determine the sex, age—and when the person was likely shot. They found a gold signet ring. It was large, heavy. Looked to me like it had belonged to a guy. The lead cold case investigator thought the body had been back there at least twenty years. Maybe more.”

“Since you're now a licensed PI,” said her father, “let me take a wild guess and say that Cordelia wants you to figure out who was murdered and why it happened.”

Jane sighed. “She did drop a few broad hints.”

“You're not interested?”

“Dad,” she said, knowing she sounded impatient—no doubt on the way to pissed. “I've spent the last month clearing the decks so that I could spend the fall concentrating on my restaurant.”

“And your girlfriend.”

“Yes, Avi's part of why I want more free time.” She drummed her fingers against her thigh. “So, what about you? Did you and Kit have a chance to talk?”

“We did.”

“And? Is everything okay?”

“It's a legal matter I'm afraid, one I can't talk about.”

“She sure looks great for a woman who must be close to sixty. I didn't realize you two were friends.”

“Hardly friends,” he said. “I helped the family with a couple of legal problems many years ago. Kit … well, as you can imagine, she's a hard woman to forget.”

Cordelia entered the great hall carrying a tray, with Kit bringing up the rear. “I've opened a bottle of Pinot Noir,” she said, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “And for those of us who require something stronger, I have a complex little black cherry soda with a velvety mouthfeel, decidedly jammy notes, and a long, elegant finish. I suggested to Kit that once we've spent a few minutes relaxing with our various poisons, we should take our merry little party over to Jane's restaurant, where dinner will be served.”

Jane watched her father and Kit share a glance. She wondered what that was all about.

“Sound like a plan?” asked Cordelia, draping herself over an antique fainting couch. When nobody responded, she held the back of her hand to her forehead and said, “Don't everyone talk at once.”

 

10

Booker no longer had any idea where to buy decent weed in this town, so instead of wasting his time trying to figure it out, when he got back to the house, he changed into his swimsuit, grabbed his bathrobe and a towel, removed two bottles of Corona Extra from the fridge, and headed up to the heated pool. He'd never much cared for lakes, didn't like all the tiny lake creatures nipping at his legs, nor the tangled patch of slimy weeds about twenty feet out from the beach. If that made him a pansy, so be it.

From his position on the diving board high above the house, he looked down on the red-tiled roof of the boathouse, where Tommy usually stayed when he was in residence. As he stood motionless, with his eyes closed, he could still feel the hot summer sun of his youth, see the crazy mix of colored beach towels hanging up to dry along the retaining wall. It felt happier in retrospect than it had been in reality. Turning to look out at the bay, he saw that it was one those special, golden autumn evenings on the lake, when all the world looked like a Flemish painting—one with a few jarring modern touches. A Yamaha jet boat, two Jet Skis, and a party barge were all tethered to the dock. The thirty-foot sailboat was kept at the Frenchman's Bay Marina. Booker had no idea how much his father had spent on water toys in the last thirty years, though he suspected the amount could easily support several small countries.

Perspective was what Booker craved. If he really had cut his parents out of his life, why did he care about all their deceptions? And, as he was surprised to find, he did care.

After chugging an entire beer, Booker dove into the water. The frigid shock to his body pulled him away from his thoughts, and it also caused him a moment of intense fury. “Jesus,” he screamed, roaring up out of the center of the pool, scraping water from his eyes. “You're a freakin' sadist!” His dad liked to keep his pool water ridiculously cold.

Without much enthusiasm, Booker swam a few laps, though his system never entirely acclimated to the ice water. Eventually, he gave up. He toweled himself dry, chugged the second beer, then headed back down to the house. He wanted to take a shower before the first “family reunion” event. If he hadn't taken the swim, the beer might have been enough to achieve a minimal mellow. Instead, he felt wide awake with a pounding headache.

As he came through the side door, his sister burst past him. “Hey,” he called, watching her wipe tears off her cheeks before plunging into her bedroom and slamming the door. Hearing voices, he tied his robe and hurried down the hall. “What's wrong with Chloe?” he demanded, coming into the kitchen.

Archibald and Tommy were seated at the center island, both intently examining the insides of their wineglasses.

Beverly leaned against the back counter, a study in grim determination. “Hello, Booker,” she said. “It's been a while. Good to see you.”

“Yeah. Good to see you, too.” Glancing up at the clock above the sink, he saw that it was later than he'd imagined—going on six. “It's Saturday. Aren't we supposed to have dinner together tonight? Where's Dad? And Mom?”

“Change in plans,” said Beverly. “Your mother won't be able to make it. She'll drive out later tonight.”

Hearing the sound of a motor roar to life, Booker stepped over to a window overlooking the lake. His dad was maneuvering the jet boat away from the dock. Fifteen feet out, he gunned the engine and took off in a straight line across the chop. “Where's he going?” asked Booker.

“You'd have to ask him,” said Tommy, rising from his stool. “If anyone needs me, I'll be in the boathouse.” Without another word, he left the room.

“Would you like a glass?” asked Archibald, holding up the wine bottle. “It's a wonderful Argentine Malbec. A high-altitude Mendoza.”

“What the hell is going on?” demanded Booker.

“The new plan is to have the first family meeting tomorrow morning at ten,” said Beverly.

Was this a reprieve, thought Booker, or simply putting off the inevitable? “I need to talk to my parents. So does Chloe.”

“This has hit us all pretty hard,” said Beverly, trying, as usual, to be the conciliatory one—the peacemaker. In the Deere family, it was a full-time position.

“What he wrote,” said Booker. “In that book. Is it true?”

Beverly bit her fingernail.

“Was what he wrote about you true?” asked Archibald.

Booker shrugged. “None of it bothered me, if that's what you're asking. I deserved it. Deserved worse than what he said.”

“The mutilated cat in your school locker?”

“I had nothing to do with that,” he said, knowing he sounded defensive. “It was Shawn Odenkirk. He either found the cat like that or he did it himself. And then he tipped off the principal after he stuffed it in there.”