by Ellen Hart
Mouse was working his way through a bowl of morning kibble and only looked up briefly.
“Has he been out?” asked Jane, getting a mug from the cupboard and pouring herself some coffee.
He nodded. “You know, being around Mouse always makes me miss my old dog.”
“You could adopt someone new. I could help.”
He sat back and thought about it. “I’m gone too much. Wouldn’t be fair.”
“Want some eggs? Bacon? Hash browns? I could even be persuaded to make blueberry pancakes.”
“This is fine for now,” he said, brushing toast crumbs off his sweater.
She leaned against the counter, sipping from her mug. “So, have you heard anything new from Sherwin May?”
“Actually, I have. He was the one who called me.”
“And?”
“It’s pretty interesting. You up for another bit of legal history?”
“Absolutely.”
He pushed his empty toast plate away. “Okay. Let’s go back to Rashad’s trial. Toward the end, we were blindsided by a last-minute witness, someone who really put the case to bed for the prosecution. His name was Trevor Loy. He and Rashad had once been lovers. Trevor testified that several months before Gideon’s death, Rashad had come to him to ask if he knew anyone who could ‘take care’ of Gideon for him, that he was willing to pay.”
“Take care as in … murder?” said Jane.
Her dad nodded. “Trevor told him he might be able to find a guy, but in the end, he never did. And that was why, the prosecution maintained, Rashad had been forced to do it himself.”
“The jury believed this Trevor?”
“They ate it up. Trevor had photo evidence that they’d met—a couple of selfies he’d taken in Rashad and Gideon’s condo the afternoon he said he and Rashad had the conversation. Up until Trevor’s appearance, I felt we had a good chance at a hung jury. Maybe even an acquittal. There was a lot of hearsay, in my opinion, and the case was thin. I don’t believe I’m overstating matters when I say that it was Trevor’s testimony that sent Rashad to prison.”
Jane stepped over to the table with her mug of coffee, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “If Trevor was telling the truth, Rashad was guilty. Did that shake your opinion of him?”
“My job, Janey, was to defend him, not to judge him. Rashad denied—absolutely, categorically denied—asking Trevor to find someone to murder Gideon. As for the meeting at the condo, Rashad said that Trevor was the one who asked to get together.”
“Tell me again how this Trevor knew Rashad.”
“They’d been together for a short time when Rashad was in college and Trevor was working at a business supply store over by the U. According to Rashad, it was nothing serious. When Trevor was arrested for holding up a 7-Eleven with a loaded twenty-two, Rashad walked away. Trevor was tried and sent to prison. It was his first offense, so he served, as I recall, maybe a couple years. Rashad knew Trevor was a liar, and that he occasionally stole from people—even friends—to make ends meet. After Trevor got out, he’d occasionally hit Rashad up for a loan. Rashad felt sorry for him, so he’d give him something and send him on his way. He thought of him as a hard-luck case.
“When they met at the condo a few weeks before Gideon’s murder, Rashad said that Trevor looked better than he had in years. But he was so talkative, almost crazy upbeat, that Rashad figured he was on something. Trevor eventually blurted out that he wanted to get back with Rashad. He painted this word-salad picture of a rosy future together. Before Rashad could shove him out the door, Gideon came home. Rashad began to explain who Trevor was and what he was doing there, but as he did, Trevor threw his arm around Rashad and said they loved each other and were getting back together.”
“That must have gone over well,” said Jane.
“Rashad finally convinced him to leave. There were a few heated words, but Gideon eventually said he believed Rashad and the matter was dropped.”
“But there was no way to prove any of this,” said Jane.
“None. It was Rashad’s word against Trevor’s.”
“Did you put Rashad on the stand to tell his side of the story?”
“I advised against it, but, yes, he did take the stand. He’s an intelligent, articulate man, but he was no match for the prosecutor. The woman carved him to pieces. I tried my best to rehabilitate him, but the damage was done.” Jane’s father folded his arms and looked down into his coffee mug. “You asked if I thought Rashad was guilty. I could be wrong, of course, but in my gut, I never did. The fact that Trevor came forward at the last minute—when the trial seemed like it could go either way, when the prosecution’s slam dunk didn’t look quite so certain—well, let’s just say it was too convenient for me.”
“You think someone pressured Trevor to testify?”
“That was my theory at the time, but I didn’t know who. Sherwin May’s PI has apparently come up with a possibility. If we decide to take this on, I’d need you to go talk to Trevor, get the full story. One last point: If you work on this with me, it would all be pro bono.”
The mystery had already taken root inside her. She wasn’t about to let it go until she had some kind of resolution. “I’m in.”
Her dad smiled. “Good. Better go get a notebook. We need to start making a list.”
9
Dragging a hand lazily through her hair, Marlo glanced at her watch before snuggling close to George. “Wake up, sleeping beauty,” she whispered.
He turned on his back and yawned. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven.”
“I’m staying in bed until at least noon.” He shut his eyes.
“You came to bed late last night.”
“Did I?”
“Where were you?”
Another yawn. “Watching TV. And then I went up to the roof deck to smoke my pipe.”
After moving in, she’d proposed that there should be no smoking in the condo. George had agreed, though she sensed he wasn’t entirely happy about it.
“Beautiful night,” he said, scratching his chest through his undershirt. “A full moon.”
If she hadn’t taken that sleeping pill, she could have gone up with him. But as George had pointed out last night, if she didn’t take one of her magic tablets, it was unlikely she’d ever get to sleep.
For the last couple of days, Marlo had been toying with the idea of telling him she’d seen a psychic. She wouldn’t mention what had motivated her decision, at least not right away. Still, the charlatan’s vision of her future had upset her and she needed to talk to someone about it. The problem was, George probably wasn’t the right “someone.”
Marlo could easily predict his reaction. He’d tell her she’d wasted her time and money, that she was silly to believe in fantasyland crap like that. He would, as usual, allow that humans could be deeply silly and still walk upright. He would end his screed, as he often did when they entered this sort of territory, by announcing that he didn’t believe in religion or ghosts, numerology or alien abduction. She’d asked him once what he did believe in, and he’d replied, “A chicken sandwich and a glass of scotch.” She had to agree. It was hard to be cynical about food.
“I’m going downstairs,” she said.
“Have a wonderful trip.” Flipping on his side, he added, “Oh, I forgot: Chuck called last night. He’s already in town. Booked himself a hotel room for the night. He wanted to know if he could come to stay a few days early.”
Marlo padded to the door, hands in the pockets of her robe. “Like today?”
“Like today. I told him it was all right with me as long as it wasn’t early.”
“I wonder why the change in plans.”
“He may have mentioned it, but I’m too sleepy to remember.” He began to mock snore.
On her way down the open stairway, her stomach growled. She hoped there might be some leftover popcorn. It was a favorite breakfast of hers, one that had sustained her through college and beyond. But when s
he saw the empty bowl on the counter, she knew she had to look elsewhere.
Digging through the pantry shelves, she found a package of instant oatmeal pushed behind a bag of dry pasta. Oatmeal with apples. And cinnamon. She popped it into the microwave and then remembered she had to remove the cover, dump in some water, and stir it first. Bother. Once that was done and it was heating on high—she detested waiting for food, especially when it was labeled “instant”—she filled up the electric kettle and set it on its base to heat. The next decision was coffee or tea. She preferred real coffee, not instant, so the question was moot. Taking down the wooden tea chest, the one George had given her on her last birthday, she was faced with ten slots crammed with teabags. She sighed and lifted a hand to her hip. It was simply too early for all this decisive action.
Before the microwave dinged and the kettle boiled, the security buzzer alerted her that someone was down in the lobby. Had to be Chuck. Picking up the phone, she said, “Yes?”
“Hi, Cousin. It’s me.”
She wasn’t dressed, but she was reasonably well-covered in plaid flannel. “I’ll buzz you in.”
Marlo spooned oatmeal into her mouth as she waited in the hallway for the elevator doors to open. When they did, Chuck stepped off, his brown hair now a pointed pompadour with shaved sides. She groaned internally, thinking how untrendy the trendy haircut made him look. More Hitler Youth than Abercrombie & Fitch. Of course, she was more Lane Bryant than she was Ann Taylor, so who was she to cast stones.
Chuck bared his blazingly white teeth as he dragged two rolling suitcases toward her. “Thanks for letting me come early.”
She held the door open for him. “I made tea,” she said brightly. She didn’t offer him oatmeal because she wasn’t sure there was another instant cup in the pantry.
He removed his coat and scarf and tossed them over a chair. “You look wonderful,” he said, squeezing her arms.
Little lies were necessary to grease social interaction. She’d put on a good twenty pounds since she’d last seen him. She smiled, her eyes rising to his pointed pompadour. “You look wonderful, too.”
“Thank you. Where’s George?”
“Still asleep. He works such long hours that I didn’t want to wake him.”
“Really? Last time I saw him, he wasn’t working at all.”
Her eyes lost some of their brightness and her lip curled, nothing someone as socially inept as Chuck would notice.
Marlo had never really liked her cousin. He’d been in and out of her life when they were kids. His mother was her dad’s older sister, a woman whose voice sounded like it was being squeezed through a tiny electronic megaphone. Chuck’s honking vocalizations were only marginally less screechy. The condo was spacious. Marlo figured she could lose Chuck in the square footage while he was a houseguest. Now that he was here, she could see it wasn’t going to be so easy.
“I’ll bring the teapot into the living room.”
“Wonderful,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
“How come you guys decided to leave Fort Lauderdale?” she asked, returning to the kitchen as he made himself comfortable on the couch. “I thought you loved it there.”
“I do,” said Chuck. “Amy can’t stand the heat.”
“She prefers the frozen tundra?” In Marlo’s opinion, the only difference between Minnesota and Siberia was the occasional gulag. Minnesota didn’t have any. Yet.
“She’s from Bemidji,” offered Chuck.
“Ah,” said Marlo. Case closed. She carried a tray into the living room and set it on the coffee table. “Why don’t you pour?” she said, dropping down heavily on a chair. There was no reason she had to do everything. “So,” she continued, “you’re looking for a new job.”
“I’ve got five interviews lined up.”
“I’m sure my dad gave you a glowing letter of recommendation.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, handing her a cup.
“Refresh my memory. Why did you leave the firm?”
“Oh, you know. I needed a change.”
“Uh huh.” She’d gleaned, mostly from her father’s body language, that there might be a bit more to it than that, but she had no idea what the problems were, just that Chuck had made a hasty exit. Maybe she’d get the details out of him now that he was her captive.
Chuck smiled over the rim of his cup. “Bought this luxury cabin cruiser last year. A small yacht, really. I’m having it shipped to Minnesota. I’ll need to find a marina somewhere close. You know any?”
“Um, no,” she said flatly, completely uninterested in the topic. “I don’t travel in the company of people who need marinas.”
“I just need a slip. This thing is a total beauty, Mar. You should see it.”
“How can you afford a luxury cabin cruiser?”
He laughed. “You sound like Amy.” He went on to describe all the places he’d taken it, the fishing he’d done, the kind of motor it had, the leather this and decorator that.
“Sounds like a floating palace.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, lowering his voice. The gleam in his eye suggested that it was used for more than family outings.
It had never occurred to her before that Chuck might be unfaithful. He was such a schlub, such a tedious, awkward, sweaty little man, that she couldn’t imagine anyone being attracted to him.
Chuck appeared oblivious to her scrutiny. He segued from the boat to some of his new friends, millionaires all. Marlo had forgotten about his penchant for braggadocio, as well as his ability to dominate conversations. She decided to make a subject change. “Ever gone to a psychic?”
He seemed nonplussed by the question. “Me? No. Amy did once. Before we were married. It was a fortune teller at the Renaissance fair. She wanted to know if the man she was dating was the one she was going to marry.”
“Were you the man?”
“Some guy from her church. The fortune teller told her that she would definitely marry him, and that they’d live happily ever after.”
Marlo played with her cup, turning it around in its saucer. “What if I told you I went to see a psychic the other day?”
It was his turn to seem bored. “Really?”
“And what if I told you she wouldn’t even talk to me?”
“Why?”
“When she touched me, she said she saw darkness, evil, blood.”
“Holy crap.”
“Yeah.”
“You think she was talking about your father?”
She’d finally captured his attention. “That’s exactly what I thought. But she said the darkness wasn’t just in my past, it was in my future.”
He cleared his throat. “I see. Well. If someone said something like that to me, I’d run like hell.”
“But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it? She wouldn’t even take my money.”
“Honestly, Mar. You get yourself into some of the weirdest shit. Just forget about it. Put it behind you.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. As a lawyer and your cousin, that’s my best advice. Now” —he craned his neck toward the kitchen—“you got anything to eat around here?”
“Sure. There’s microwave popcorn in the cupboard above the Vitamix. Help yourself. Oh, and while you’re cooking, make a bag for me, too.”
10
On New Year’s Day, the Lyme House served a special brunch until three P.M. Instead of preparing a meal at the house, Jane took Julia and her father over to the restaurant, a building that rose from the edge of Lake Harriet like a Northwoods log cathedral. The table, where they ate prime rib and Yorkshire pudding, overlooked the water, now covered in a layer of ice and snow.
Even after twelve plus hours of sleep, Julia seemed tired and out of sorts. Jane and her dad kept up a lively conversation, one that Julia checked in and out of, never entirely connecting. For Jane, it was becoming more and more difficult to navigate Julia’s moods. Neither of them wanted her illness to absorb all the air in the room, and yet there were tim
es when that’s what it did. Jane’s worry caused her to take Julia’s physical and emotional temperature more often than necessary, which annoyed Julia and made her retreat into herself even more. They were developing a weirdly negative feedback loop, one neither of them seemed able to crawl out of.
After dropping Julia back home and then taking her father across the river to his house in Highland Park, Jane returned to the restaurant, where she spent a couple hours working quietly in her office. By five, she was up in the dining room greeting customers for the dinner meal. As she was making the rounds with the coffee pot, Cordelia loomed in the double doors, waving frantically. “Just a second,” Jane mouthed. She walked over to the wait station and set the pot back on the warming plate.
Cordelia was dressed in her new Gatsby coat, a vintage, green-velvet kimono style, with three-quarter sleeves finished in brown faux fur. Her fur-lined hunting cap with ear flaps didn’t fit with the rest of her ensemble, but in winter, Cordelia was never one to sacrifice comfort on the altar of fashion.
“Where’s the fire?” asked Jane as she finally reached her.
“Come with me,” said Cordelia, grabbing Jane’s hand and dragging her toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Sure you do.”
Jane managed to pry her hand from Cordelia’s grip as they entered the pub.
“This way,” said Cordelia, leading the way to the less noisy, darker, more intimate back room.
As they approached a table near a round, open fireplace, a man stood and turned to face them.
Jane stopped dead. “Peter?”
He grinned and opened his arms wide.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. Rushing to him, she held on tight. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Come on, you two,” said Cordelia. “I need a hug, too.”
They opened their arms and let her in.
After they took their seats, Jane drank in every feature of her brother’s face. He looked so different than before he left. His chestnut hair, the same color as hers, was now blond, though the dark roots were visible. His beard—not quite a beard, but more than a scruff—was dark. “Your hair,” she said.
