Twisted at the Root--A Jane Lawless Mystery

by Ellen Hart

  “I just need to talk to him.”

  “You don’t want to tell me. That’s fine.”

  “Did the police interview you?”

  “They talked to Marlo and me at some length the night of the murder. We were separated, put in different squad cars. I can imagine they got an earful about Rashad, about what a gold-digger he was.”

  “Did you think he was a gold-digger?”

  “No. Not at all. If anything, he seemed far less interested in the trappings of wealth than Gideon. Marlo has a tendency to believe what she wants to believe, no matter how much evidence there is to the contrary. I’m not saying she’s not a good woman, just that she can be a tad”—he searched for a word—“single-minded.”

  “Did the police ever interrogate either of you again?”

  “No. Never. Since you’re interested, this is what I told them: Marlo and I had been home watching TV when Gideon’s neighbor called. She said she’d heard a commotion in the hall. When she looked out, she saw police coming and going from Gideon’s condo. I offered to drive Marlo over because she was upset. I sat in the living room while—”

  “Wait, wait. You’re saying you were there? Inside the condo?”

  “Yes.”

  “I read the police report. There’s no mention of you.”

  “Perhaps I’m not very memorable.”

  “It was a crime scene. No one, including family, is generally allowed in.”

  He cocked his head. “Yes, now that you mention it, there were some words about whether we should be there. As I recall, there were only two officers inside when we arrived, and both were young. Marlo was not about to be stopped. She pushed past the man at the door and made straight for the other one who was standing just outside the bathroom. He caught her and prevented her from going in, but when she looked inside the room, she screamed. I wasn’t about to leave her, so I sat down in the living room. A few minutes later, a group of officers descended, some in uniform, some in plain clothes. A whispered conference ensued under the stairway. I was pointed out a couple of times, but nothing was done about me. Once they started looking around, my presence seemed to be forgotten. Oh … except, a plainclothes cop did come over at one point and tell me to get the F up and go stand against the windows.”

  “Why?”

  “They were starting to take photos. They didn’t want me in the living room.”

  “Tell me, do you remember a black-and-white tote sitting under that long gallery wall? There were block letters—JHC—on the front.”

  “Funny you should mention that. Yes, I do. I stood by the windows for a few minutes and then I was ordered to go back to my chair. That’s when several men and one woman began their examination of the living room. One of the men was crawling along the floor, looking for, I assume, clues. When he got to me, he told me to move my f-ing bag closer to my chair. He seemed annoyed that it was blocking his path. I don’t know why he assumed it was mine, he just did. Believe me, by then, I had no interest in engaging with any of them, so I did what he asked. I moved it in front of me. While nobody was looking, I peeked inside.”

  “And?”

  “Empty. When one of the officers finally led Marlo out of the rear of the condo, he conferred for a few seconds with one of the men doing the search, and then hollered for me to pick up my f-ing bag and follow him outside.”

  “You took it?”

  “I did.”

  “Nobody ever looked inside?”

  “The uniformed cop standing at the door stopped me and made me open it. He was a tad huffy, in my opinion, as if I was trying to smuggle gold bars out of the condo right under his nose. When he saw there was nothing in it, he told me to get lost.”

  Jane felt as if the sun had finally risen over the mountain. This was why the bag had been visible in one of the photos, but for those taken after George’s departure, it was gone. “What happened to the bag?”

  He tapped a finger against his chin. “You know, I have no memory of that. I imagine I took it back to our townhouse. We always used totes when we bought groceries. I suppose I put it with the rest of them. It was really quite nice, as I recall.”

  “And you have no idea where it is now?”

  “None. We have our groceries delivered these days.”

  “Would you be willing to look for it? You might still have it.”

  “Yes, I could do that.”

  “You have my card. If you find it, would you call me? This could be a very big piece of evidence.”

  “Of course.” He checked his watch. “I’m afraid—”

  “It’s fine,” said Jane. “I really appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

  “Have you spoken with Marlo?”

  “This morning.”

  “Can I assume she wasn’t much help?”

  “Not much.”

  “Well.” He pressed his hands together and stood. “Still no interest in that new designer tweed jacket?”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “You do that,” he said, grinning.

  19

  Eli sat at a desk in a large, open room on the second floor of the gallery. He was in the process of googling information on cat behavior when Kit came in. She usually told him when she was going out, but today, she hadn’t. Glancing up, he asked, a bit more gruffly than he intended, “Where were you?”

  She didn’t respond, just got busy at a desk a few feet away. She’d been working on the monthly newsletter most of the morning.

  “Not gonna tell me?” he asked.

  She shot him a peeved look.

  John Henry came out the door of his office carrying a framed print. Walking up to a long, battered work table, he said, “What’s this I hear about Gideon Wise? They’re reopening his murder case?”

  “I don’t think it’s gone that far,” said Eli. “But, yeah. Sounds like Raymond Lawless is pursuing his own investigation.”

  “That right,” said John Henry, staring off into space. “Sad business. Gideon wasn’t just a client of mine, he was a friend. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

  “Will do,” said Eli.

  “Now, do I have a portfolio review this afternoon?”

  “I think so,” said Kit. “Anna would know the details.”

  As if by magic, a plump, bosomy older woman opened the door of her tiny office and stepped out.

  For as long as Eli could remember, Anna Morley had handled the daily business of the gallery—cutting checks, banking, quarterly taxes, and generally keeping the lights on. She was also his father’s de facto private secretary. Anna and her husband, Lenny, had been good friends with his parents. They often spent their evenings together playing bridge.

  “What was the question?” Anna asked, handing a stack of contracts to John Henry.

  “Any portfolio reviews for me today?”

  “One at four thirty.”

  “Here or somewhere else?”

  “Here,” said Anna. “You have another one on Monday morning at a home studio in Woodbury. By the way, I wanted to mention something because I forgot when we were having lunch: I’ve been thinking it’s high time we raised our review fees. I’m going to do some research on what other galleries of our standing charge.”

  “Have I told you recently how amazing you are?” asked John Henry, gazing warmly at her.

  She blushed. Attempting to hide it, she turned and walked briskly back to her office.

  John Henry now turned his full attention to Kit. “Where were you for the last hour and a half?”

  “Did you miss me?”

  Eli loathed it when she flirted with him.

  Kit took out her phone. “I had lunch with Peter Lawless. See? I took a couple of selfies.”

  Eli got up and leaned in close to get a better look. The sight of Peter’s arms around her made the anvil in his stomach grow even heavier. What the hell was he thinking, pawing her like that?

  “You two seem cozy,” said John Henry, crossing the room to a desk pu
shed up against the far wall. Pulling out a chair, he continued, “Did you have a good time?”

  “He’s a really sweet guy. I think his marriage is in trouble.”

  “Oh?” said Eli. Peter hadn’t mentioned anything about that last night.

  “Kit, honey, come here,” said John Henry.

  She stuffed her phone back into her purse. “Why?”

  “I want to show you something.” He searched through an art magazine.

  Glancing at Eli, she moved over next to him.

  “Bend down,” he said.

  She seemed to hesitate.

  Reaching up to touch her face, John Henry asked, “Do you love me, Kit?”

  “Of course I do, silly. With all my heart.” She kissed him, long and lingering.

  Now Eli’s stomach really began to sour. Screw them. He headed for the door. He needed a cigarette.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Kit, rushing to his side and grabbing his arm. “I need to talk to Winslow about the upcoming installation.”

  “Have fun, you two,” said John Henry, waving them off.

  * * *

  When Eli saw Kit leave the gallery earlier than usual that afternoon, he decided to do the same. His dad would be working late tonight. Mason would be on the floor until six, so it wasn’t as if he was leaving his dad in the lurch.

  Eli ducked out around five, doing errands on the way home. As he came in the front door carrying his dry cleaning, looking forward to spending some time with Charlotte, he was met by a wild sight. Women’s clothing had been flung in a zigzag pattern all the way to the door of his bathroom.

  “Hello?” he called, looking around. Charlotte was nowhere in sight. He found Kit in the bathtub surrounded by a mass of bubbles.

  “Hi, babe,” she said, raising a foot and wiggling it at him.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why not? It’s like a tomb over in the main house. I hate being alone. Besides, your place is more cozy. And speaking of cozy, why didn’t you mention you adopted a cat?”

  “She’s a stray. I’m going to put her up on Craigslist when I get a chance.”

  “She’s cute. But not very friendly.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I think I scared her. Last I saw, she was holding court under your bed.”

  He stepped a little closer. “Kit, come on, you can’t be here like this.”

  “What do you think this is? I’m taking a bath.”

  “If Dad found you in here—”

  “He won’t. Come sit down on the edge. Talk to me.”

  She did things like this. She wasn’t good at coloring within the lines. Once upon a time he’d found it sexy. Problem was, he still did. He hung the dry cleaning on a hook behind the door. “I should go make sure Charlotte’s okay.”

  “She’s fine. Come on, sit with me. I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

  This was the last thing he needed. He already had too many complications in his tangled life. And yet, as hard as he fought it, he felt like an iron filing in the presence of a magnet. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Stuff. I don’t care. You start.”

  He couldn’t help himself. The comment made him laugh. She was so unencumbered by rules and social norms. He was a brooder, a man full of shame and regret. She was a free spirit, happy in a way he could never be. When he was with her, he often felt like an anthropologist investigating a new human species. Homo Kit-us.

  He sat down on the edge of the tub.

  “Your father’s a jerk.”

  “Is he? Why?”

  “He thinks I’m messy.”

  “You are messy.”

  “And that I don’t care about him enough.”

  “Is that true?”

  She played with the bubbles. “What’s enough?”

  “I suppose you should ask him.”

  “He’s mean.”

  “Come on, Kit.”

  “You don’t know him the way I do.”

  That was a reasonable statement. Still, it was the first time she’d ever said anything like it.

  Sinking her chin into the bubbles, she continued, “I want to tell you a secret but I can’t.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  The comment amused her. “I better not because I hope to live to a ripe old age.”

  He dipped his hand into the water.

  “Nice and warm, huh?”

  “Very.” Did he have the guts to do what he really wanted? His hand moved slowly up her side until it was only inches from her breast.

  “What are you doing?”

  All around him was a curious buzzing noise.

  “I like it,” she said.

  “I’m glad.”

  She lifted her arm out of the bubbles and placed it on his thigh.

  When he saw the bruise, he said, “That still hurt?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  Inside him a shouting match had begun. When he heard his voice silently plead, “Pull your damn hand out of the damn water,” he did. “Why did you let Peter Lawless paw you like that?”

  “Paw me? In that selfie? We were just kidding around. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

  “What if I was?”

  “I’m a married woman, Eli. And besides, Peter’s a puppy. Adorable in a wholesome sort of way. But, come on. You know me. I don’t like my men wholesome.”

  “Wholesome men don’t put their family at risk because they can’t stay away from blow.”

  “Okay, point taken. But I don’t want to talk about him. He’s nothing. Nobody. Put your hand back in the water.”

  “No, I should—”

  “Do it. For me.” She guided his hand toward her, under the water. “Quiet now, baby. Just do what comes naturally.”

  He closed his eyes. In a life full of bad decisions, this might be one of the worst.

  “Yes, right there,” she said. “So good. Don’t stop.”

  20

  Late that afternoon, Jane met with the investigator Sherwin May had hired. The office was on West Broadway, a little one-story hole-in-the-wall that was dwarfed by the brick buildings on either side. The P.I., one Darnell Brown, gave her a box of files he’d gathered, telling her that she should spend some time trying to track down Trevor Loy, Rashad’s onetime boyfriend. Brown felt certain that someone had gotten to him, that Loy never would have testified if there hadn’t been something in it for him. He told Jane she should also check out a guy named Dean Frick, a beat cop, one of the men who’d responded to the 911 at Rashad and Gideon’s condo. According to Brown, Frick had a well-known hatred of “the gays,” as Brown put it. He said the guy was nasty, and had been brought up on charges of using excessive force at least three times in his nine-year service.

  “You call me, girl,” said Brown as Jane stood to leave. “You got all my info. If I can help, I will. Those boys, neither of them deserved what came down. We gotta get Rashad out of that hole.”

  She thanked him for taking the time to talk to her. He insisted on carrying the box out to her truck. Once he’d gone back inside, Jane opened her phone. She had a bunch of emails, which she clicked through quickly, determining that there was nothing urgent from the restaurant. She then turned her attention to the texts. Most were from Cordelia, who seemed to be having one of her stream-of-consciousness texting days. None of what she’d written made much sense, though Jane was sure it did to Cordelia. Several were from Julia saying she would likely be home late. Her meeting at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester had gone long and because of that, she said, she and her assistant, Carol, would grab some dinner on the way home.

  The text Jane was most interested in was from her father. She’d sent him one after meeting with George Krochak, explaining that she’d finally solved the mystery of the tote bag.

  He’d texted back:

  Great work. But can we prove it?

  Maybe press him again to find the tote.

  Of course, he was right.
He understood the complex legal ramifications far better than she did. Without the bag, it was just an unsubstantiated story, easily explained by another unsubstantiated story. And even with the bag, it would still be problematic. Even so, Jane continued to view it as progress.

  After driving home, she carried the P.I.’s box inside and set it down on the dining room table. She took a few minutes to play with the dogs, lying on the rug in the living room as they bounded around and over her, snuggling, snuffling, licking her face while she scratched their backs and gently pulled their ears. She dug out a couple of bully sticks in the kitchen and got them set up on their large, comfy bed in the corner of her study. As they chewed away contentedly, she cleared everything off the bulletin board behind her desk, readying it for a new case. But before she could begin going through the information from Darnell Brown, her cell phone rang.

  “Let me in, let me in,” came an urgent, pleading voice. Cordelia’s voice.

  “Where are you?”

  “On your front steps. I’m freezing out here.”

  Jane hurried to answer the door. “What’s up?” she asked as Cordelia fluttered inside.

  “You never answered any of my texts.”

  “That’s because I had no idea what you were talking about. Aardvarks?”

  “The Captive Aardvark,” said Cordelia. “I told you all about it.”

  Jane had no memory of ever discussing aardvarks with Cordelia.

  She whipped off her cape and tossed it over a dining room chair. “The play, Jane, the one I intend to mount in the spring.”

  Jane shook her head. “Nope. Nothing in my memory banks.”

  “Piffle,” said Cordelia, hand rising to her hip. “It’s all about the power of political theater. If we’ve ever needed that voice, it’s now. Like Bertolt Brecht, Arthur Miller, freakin’ Shakespeare. A long history. I don’t mean something didactic, but a great story. Story always comes first, last, and in-between. That’s what The Captive Aardvark is. Do you know anything about captive aardvarks?”

  “Any reason I should?” Jane grabbed the box from the dining room table and headed back to her study.

  Cordelia charged after her. “It’s what Peter Hall said.”