by Ellen Hart
“What? Why?”
“There’s a woman I need to see. I don’t want to say more. Not yet.”
“Is it about your illness?”
“Yes. I’ll be gone a few days. Three or four at the most. Carol will take me to the airport in the morning.”
“No,” said Jane. “I’ll do it.”
“I hate saying goodbye at crowded airport curbsides. I’d rather do it here. Just the way we are right now. Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry,” said Jane. “I’m just … this is a lot.”
Julia kissed her long and slow. And then she kissed her again. “All will be made clear, my love. All I ask is a little patience.”
22
“What to do?” George said to himself, drumming his fingers on the arm of a chair. Because he had seniority, when he asked for a Saturday off, he usually got it. He was seated in the den, the morning newspaper open in his lap, a cup of coffee on the table next to him. Marlo didn’t always work weekends, but because of the new card line, she needed to be there. Chuck hadn’t come home at all last night, which was fine with George.
All morning, he’d been thinking about what Jane the Altruist had said to him yesterday. He had no idea where that tote had gone, but thought he might spend some time today digging around. With that in mind, he’d dressed in a comfortable old pair of jeans and a clean, tight, white T-shirt, a look he’d liked ever since he’d first seen James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. Not that he looked like Dean, but a man could dream, couldn’t he?
Pocketing his keys, he left the condo and strolled down the hall to another door. Behind it were the storage units. Because they owned one of the penthouses, their unit was quite large. Pulling up the metal garage-style door, he flipped on the overhead light, a bare sixty-watt bulb. He hadn’t been inside in years. Most of the stuff shoved against the far wall was from his apartment. He liked to think of it as “thrift-store chic.” He’d used threadbare rugs as wall art, a bass drum as a table in the living room, and his bookshelf was made of old, black, industrial piping screwed into the studs. Marlo was visibly charmed by his place the first time he’d invited her over.
Now, where to look first. He did a thorough search of the kitchen boxes and found nothing. Moving through the room, he pawed through the rest of the boxes, dug into every drawer, every trunk. An hour later, he was done, convinced that he hadn’t missed anything.
Before they’d moved into the condo, George had prevailed upon Marlo to toss the worst of her old junk. He owned less junk, but was equally ruthless with his own stuff. It seemed possible that he’d tossed the tote, although that didn’t really make sense because they both used them all the time back then, when they shopped for groceries. Now that they had groceries delivered, he wondered where those once-well-used totes had all gone.
Returning to the condo, he searched through the kitchen, finding nothing. In the pantry, he did locate a couple of old Lunds totes, folded and resting on a lower shelf. One was in use as a makeshift shelf liner under a couple bottles of olive oil and a jar of honey. Feeling as if he were on a fool’s errand, he took a mug out of the freezer and filled it with root beer. Walking around, he poked through each room, sipping his drink.
As he came into their bedroom a few minutes later, he began humming a song that had been in his head all morning. Embarrassingly, he knew every word of “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by the English pop group Wham! He would never have admitted it in polite society, but here, alone in the bedroom, he could try out his George Michael moves. Setting the mug down on the nightstand, he spun around and grooved his way across the rug, imagining himself as a great-looking young blondish man with insanely white teeth. Flipping open the closet door in time to the music, he was about to do another twirl when the sight of something white-and-black caught his eye.
There it was. On the floor next to the wall. He’d never noticed it before. It was packed with old, rolled-up rock posters—the ones Marlo hadn’t quite been able to toss. He scooped it up and dumped the posters onto the bed, and then sat down to examine it. Except there wasn’t anything to examine. It was empty, just as he remembered it. There was a small pocket, but again, it was empty. Or—
As he felt around inside, he discovered a business card that had somehow stuck to the side. Removing it, he read out loud, “J.H. Chenoweth Gallery, 104 Barber Street, Minneapolis.” At the bottom was a phone number and two names: John Henry Chenoweth on top, and Eli Chenoweth underneath.
“Huh,” he said. He vaguely remembered the name as one of the galleries Gideon bought from on occasion. So, if the tote belonged to the gallery, why had it been in the condo the night Gideon was murdered?
George patted the back pocket of his jeans and removed his cell phone. He opened the case flap where he’d stuck the card Jane the Investigator had given him yesterday. Punching in the number, he sent a text:
Found the tote. Card from the
JH Chenoweth Gallery inside.
Gideon used to buy from them.
On my way downtown to check
it out.
George K
Placing the card back where he’d found it, he left the tote on the bed, trotted downstairs, and grabbed his coat.
* * *
The parking in the north loop was as bad as he remembered. Sliding his Volvo into a tight spot on a side street, he got out, checking the distance between his car and the Chevy behind it. Feeling that it should be okay, that there was plenty of room to maneuver—unless the driver of the Chevy was a complete idiot—he headed straight for the gallery.
Taking in the galvanized metal sign above the door, George pushed inside. The interior of the warehouse had been beautifully renovated. The wooden floors were perfectly polished and looked original. The walls were white. Toward the back was an antique desk. The middle-aged man behind it stood and walked toward him.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” said George. For some reason, when he met someone new, his English accent returned with a vengeance. “I’d like to see John Henry or Eli Chenoweth.”
“I believe they’re both here,” said the man. “Do you have a preference?”
“Either is fine,” said George with a smile.
“May I ask what this is about?”
“We … that is, my wife and I … have some artwork we’d like to have appraised. Do you do that?”
“Of course.”
“It originally belonged to my father-in-law, Gideon Wise. I believe he bought much of it here.”
“Good to know,” said the man. “Why don’t you look around while you’re waiting? If you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them.” He moved back behind the desk, picked up a phone, and punched in a number.
George walked into one of the side galleries. Perhaps he should have talked to Jane Lawless first—leaving it to the professionals as it were—but he was too curious. And besides, he was fully capable of doing a bit of a reconnoiter himself.
* * *
Jane had finally been granted access to visit Rashad May at Stillwater state prison. Cordelia was already on his list and begged to come along, so shortly after eight—the middle of the night for her—she arrived at Jane’s house just as Julia was leaving, trailing a rolling suitcase behind her. Jane watched from the dining room window as the two most important women in her life passed like two snarling ships in the night. Jane waited until Julia was safely inside Carol’s car and then went to open the door for Cordelia.
With rush hour traffic and a stop for a hearty breakfast of chocolate milk and Funyuns for Cordelia, it was ten o’clock before they found themselves inside the grim fortress, being searched and passed through a metal detector. Accompanied by security, they walked down a long hallway as gates clanged shut behind them. By working for her father, Jane had become part of Rashad’s legal team. Her dad had arranged for a private room. Cordelia seemed oblivious to her surroundings, likely because she’d visited Rashad many times before, but Jan
e’s reaction wasn’t as sanguine. She’d never liked being inside a prison, which, of course, was the point. Nobody did. This morning, however, she felt the claustrophobic sense of separation from the world even more keenly, worried, as she was, about Julia.
“I think I ate too many Funyuns,” muttered Cordelia as they were ushered into the room.
A door eventually opened and Rashad, wearing a prison uniform, came in. Cordelia instantly jumped up and gave him a hug and a kiss. This, according to the guard, was the only contact permitted until the end of the meeting, when another short contact was allowed. Rashad beamed his affection at Cordelia, but the guard standing in the doorway cut it short by ordering them both to sit down.
The photo Jane had of Rashad looked nothing like the man sitting across from her. Four years ago, he’d been clean-shaven, open-faced and handsome. Now, except for a slight wariness about the eyes, his face was expressionless. He’d put on weight, too, looking like a man who spent hours each day in the gym. His upper arms were huge, the size of pork roasts. His head was shaved, and he had a scar running from the edge of his right eye to his chin.
“It’s so great to see you,” enthused Cordelia. “Boy, you’re even more pumped than you were last time I saw you.”
He seemed embarrassed. “In a place where I have control over virtually nothing, it’s something I can control.”
“I get it,” said Cordelia. She was about to pat his wrist, but pulled her hand back, remembering the rules.
“I’ve actually met a lot of guys while working out. There are some great people in here. Plenty not so great, but honestly, I’m lucky. I’ve made some real friends, which makes life a little more bearable.” He glanced at Jane almost shyly. “Thanks for coming. Both of you. I talked to your dad, Jane, a few days ago. I guess Sherwin convinced him that I still might have a chance.”
“How do you feel about that?” asked Jane.
“Good. Well, yeah, good. Except…” He scratched the scruff on his face. “This place … it’s hard. At first, I lived and breathed my appeals. It was all I thought about. I kept hoping they’d reverse the decision, that they’d see they’d made a mistake. When it didn’t happen, I crashed. Over time, I found that the only way to deal with being in here was to forget about hope altogether.”
“That sounds awfully bleak,” said Jane.
“You can’t lose hope,” Cordelia chimed in.
He shifted his gaze to his hands. “I read this book once. It was fantasy or science fiction, can’t remember which. Don’t remember the writer’s name either, but there was this passage about Pandora. You know the story: Zeus gives her a box and tells her not to look inside, but she does, and when she opens it, all the evils of the world that were trapped inside fly out. Except for hope. What, the character in the book asks, was hope doing in there in the first place? She thinks about it and eventually concludes that hope was in there because it was as bad as the rest. In fact, it was so bad, so weighed down by evil, it couldn’t even struggle out of the goddamn box. I know that’s not the way most people read the myth, the allegory, or whatever the hell it is, but I never forgot it. Seems like the truth to me. Maybe I should call it prison truth.”
Jane found the comment deeply sad, and yet, from his standpoint, it made a certain sense. “I wish I could promise we’ll get you out.”
“I’m not asking for that. Truth is, I always figured I was in here because when the cops looked around for the murderer, they took one look at me, the only black man in the room—a gay black man at that—and it was game over.”
Jane wasn’t about to argue the point.
“They interrogated me that night for nine hours. Then they left me alone in this small room for another few hours, until my lawyer arrived. He was arranging to get me out when they came back in and arrested me. I never even got to go home. Wasn’t allowed to go to Gideon’s funeral.” He shook his head.
“I’d like to fill you in on what we’ve been able to dig up so far,” said Jane.
“Please,” he said, though his bitter expression didn’t change. “Your father told me a few things, but he said you’d have more details.”
She spent the next few minutes going through each new piece of information, ending with the conversation she’d had yesterday with George Krochak. “If he can find the tote, it will be a big step forward. My father said you confirmed that you and Gideon never owned a tote like that.”
“It’s not the kind of thing Gideon would’ve wanted around. Pardon me for putting it this way, but it would have been too housewifey for him. Too suburban.”
“Any idea what the initials JHC stand for? I looked it up on the web, found a gaming company, a tech company, a firm that does program analysis.”
He thought about it. “All I can think of is the J.H. Chenoweth gallery in downtown Minneapolis. Gideon bought fine art from them, though I don’t know what the connection would be.”
At the sound of the name Chenoweth, Jane’s head snapped up. “Any relation to Eli Chenoweth?”
“Yeah, he’s the owner’s son. You know him?”
“I know the name.”
Hesitating, he looked down. “That’s weird, you know?”
“What’s weird?” asked Cordelia.
“Well, I mean, now that you bring him up, it reminds me of something—nothing I ever thought about before. I was asked who had the security code to our condo. I told the police we’d given it to Marlo, which meant George had it, too. But that was it. We set it ourselves, and we were encouraged to change it often. We’d only been there for a month or so when Gideon died. Except—” He scratched his cheek. “How could I have forgotten this? Gideon must have given it to that gallery because while we were at work, they came in and hung all his artwork. It was the first week we were there. Gideon wanted it professionally done and he trusted the gallery because he’d done so much business with them. I may be wrong, but I think Eli was the one he worked with.”
Jane and Cordelia exchanged glances.
“And you didn’t change the code when the job was complete?” asked Jane.
“I never gave it a thought. Apparently, neither did Gideon. I didn’t have any dealings with that gallery or any of Gideon’s art buying. I’m not saying the gallery or Eli had anything to do with Gideon’s death, but they must have had the key code.”
“Eli Chenoweth is a good friend of my brother’s,” said Jane. “They roomed together in college and stayed friends.”
“Peter?” said Rashad, raising his eyebrows. “I went out for a drink with him that night. A drink that turned into dinner.”
“What time did Gideon normally get home from work?” asked Jane.
“Seven, sometimes later. Except, that day, he had a dentist’s appointment. He texted me from work and said the Novocain was wearing off and his tooth hurt like hell. Said he was going home early.”
“Peter was the one who asked you out that night?” asked Jane.
“He wanted to talk about some new documentary he hoped to film. I think he was looking for investment capital.”
“And if it had been a normal day, Gideon would have been gone until at least seven. Nobody would have been around?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“What time did you usually get home?”
“I was off at five thirty, so maybe six.”
“If Peter hadn’t asked you out, you would have gone home that night?”
“Yeah.”
“This guy in the hoodie,” said Jane. “We have him on the security camera in the parking garage at six twenty-five.”
Rashad leaned forward, a deep frown on his face. “What are you suggesting? That your brother invited me out to dinner to make sure I wasn’t home so his friend could come in and … what? Rob the place?”
Jane felt like a firecracker had just exploded inside her head. She couldn’t believe Peter would willingly agree to help a friend illegally enter another friend’s condo. And yet as much as she resisted the idea, the facts
seemed to point in that direction.
“You’re saying that guy in the hoodie came into our condo confident that nobody would be there? Does that mean you think Eli Chenoweth was the one who murdered Gideon?”
“I don’t know,” said Jane. “But I’m beginning to wonder if his murder was somehow connected to that gallery.”
“Jesus,” Rashad whispered, his eyes flying around the room. “You gotta talk to that brother of yours. Find out what he knows.”
“Believe me, I will.”
Before they left, Cordelia tried to lighten Rashad’s mood by filling him in on what was going on with their mutual friends. Mostly it was gossip. Rashad listened, but, as with Jane, his focus was elsewhere.
On the way to the car, Cordelia said, “Peter’s got some serious ’splaining to do.”
Jane checked her cell phone for messages. One caught her eye. “Just a sec,” she said, stopping right in the middle of the parking lot.
“What?” asked Cordelia, now back to digging through the Funyuns bag in her purse.
“George sent me a text. He found the tote.”
Cordelia whooped, then covered her mouth. “Probably best not to express unbridled jubilation in a prison parking lot.”
Jane felt dizzy as she read his words. “There was a business card inside the tote from the J.H. Chenoweth gallery. It has Eli’s name on it.”
Cordelia stopped midchew.
“He’s headed there right now.” She glanced at her watch. “Or he was headed there two hours ago.”
“You think—”
“I think he may have walked into a hornet’s nest.”
“We need to go rescue him.”
Cordelia was right. They could hardly call the police because George Krochak found a sack and a business card. “Come on,” she said, unlocking her truck. “Let’s get out of here.”
23
Cordelia loomed in the gallery doorway surveying her surroundings, her dark, smoldering eyes glinting under the track lighting. She was Greta Garbo in Queen Christina, standing at the prow of a ship, staring into the wine-dark sea with the rapt gaze of a monk, ready to take on the world for the sake of her beloved Sweden. Except, this wasn’t Sweden, it was an art gallery, and Cordelia wasn’t a queen, except in her own mind.
