Twisted at the Root--A Jane Lawless Mystery

by Ellen Hart

  Jane was so shocked she almost stopped breathing. “When did it happen?”

  “The wreck was discovered by a kid around eleven this morning. That’s all I know.” Marlo began to sob.

  “I’m.… stunned. I wish I could tell you more,” Jane said.

  “How could this happen?” Marlo demanded, her voice husky from the tears. “They said he didn’t have his seat belt on. He always wore his seatbelt.”

  George had texted that he was headed to the gallery. It had to be the Chenoweths’. A gust of panic blew through her as she thought of Peter and his potential feelings for Kit. Her brother was vulnerable right now, though he probably didn’t see it that way. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t need your sympathy. I need my husband back the way he was this morning.” Marlo paused. “Oh, go to hell.” She ended the call.

  28

  The following morning, Peter carried coffee and peanut butter toast into the breakfast room. Hattie, once again, was seated at the table, reading.

  “No apple pie today?” he asked, pulling out a chair.

  She raised her eyes. “Are we gonna do this again?”

  “Ice cream?” he said, not even trying to hide his amusement.

  She shrugged. “I finished off the chicken tikka masala and wanted dessert.”

  “You had chicken masala for breakfast?”

  “Leftovers? Bolger’s boyfriend came over last night and stayed for dinner. I made the rice.” She paused. “In a rice cooker. It’s not hard.”

  “Is it all gone?”

  “Yup.” She smiled down at her book. “In case you were wondering, it was delicious.”

  Bolger Aspenwall III had been employed as Hattie’s nanny for several years while he was getting his MFA in directing at the University of Minnesota. He’d spent another year in film school while living in Los Angeles. He’d come back, partly to resume his position, this time as part-time nanny, but also because he needed somewhere cheap to live so he could work on a screenplay. For his service, Cordelia had given him free room and board. He’d commandeered a couple of the old servants’ rooms on the third floor.

  Without looking up, Hattie continued, “Bolger’s writing a screenplay, you know.”

  “I heard.”

  She turned a page. “By the way, I filled out that form for The Planetary Report. You can make the fifty-dollar check out to The Planetary Society.”

  He’d completely forgotten. “Sure. I’ll get it to you later today.”

  “The check’s in the mail,” she said, again with a smile. Closing the book, she pushed her chair back.

  “Big plans today?” he asked.

  “It’s Sunday. Auntie Cordelia is taking Hazel and me to a movie.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “And then we’re going out for dinner with Jane. Probably Italian. Auntie Cordelia says that Jane needs us right now.”

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Not entirely sure, but Julia’s gone for a few nights and my aunt says Jane’s really worried about her. Julia’s sick, you know.”

  Peter didn’t have all the details. Last he’d heard, she was having some problems with her eyesight.

  “It’s cancer,” said Hattie.

  “Oh. Wow.”

  “My aunt thinks Jane should be around family. To cheer her up.”

  He wondered why Jane hadn’t said anything to him. Then again, he’d never asked. Cancer was a terrible blow, though it hardly altered his opinion of his sister’s enchanted life. Jane Lawless, woman of steel. Successful at everything she touched. Still, he did feel a slight pang of guilt at his lack of compassion.

  Hattie walked around to the other side of the table, gave Peter a hug, and then shuffled out, saying, “Later, dude.”

  “Yeah, later,” he said.

  Sitting alone, looking through the multipaned windows at the rose garden covered in snow, he brushed his thoughts of Jane away and turned to the conversation he’d had the previous night with Cordelia. He assumed that by now, she’d broadcast his sad tale to everyone in the family and was vying to make it the lead story on the evening news. Peter Lawless is a screwup. Maybe it was easier that way. He wouldn’t need to explain it himself. Cordelia’s biggest reaction had come when he acknowledged that Eli had been the one behind Peter’s invitation to Rashad May. Now that the gallery was considered the epicenter of his sister’s investigation into Gideon Wise’s murder, he was once again unsure about what he’d gotten himself into.

  Taking out his cell phone, he tapped in Kit’s number. He waited through half a dozen rings and was about to hang up when she answered.

  “Hey. I was just thinking about you,” she said, a smile in her voice.

  “You were? I mean, that’s nice to hear.”

  “I had a great time at the bar the other night.”

  “Yeah, me too. Listen, I was wondering if we could get together for lunch today.”

  “Are you flirting with me, Peter Lawless?”

  “What? No, no—”

  “Can’t,” she said. “It’s my day off. I need to study.”

  “Oh. Bummer.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “Can you get away?”

  “I’ll figure it out. How about the Lighthouse again. Say around eight?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Can’t wait. Gotta run, baby. Bye.”

  * * *

  Jane stood in front of the first-floor reception desk at the Hennepin County Medical Center and waited for a woman to locate George’s room number. If he was in intensive care, she doubted she would be allowed to see him. She hadn’t been able to get any information over the phone.

  “6244,” said the woman.

  “Is he in the ICU?”

  “No, it’s a private room,” the receptionist said before explaining where to find the elevators.

  On six, Jane walked through a maze of hallways until she finally found the room and, since nobody was around to prevent her, went in. George was lying in the bed, hooked up to various machines, his eyes closed, one arm in a cast, and one leg in a brace. He bore little resemblance to the man she’d met on Friday. There was really no point in coming, she supposed, except that she wanted to see him. If—and when—he woke up, she hoped he’d be able to remember what happened, who’d done this to him. Jane felt guilty because if she hadn’t asked him to look for the tote bag, none of this would have happened.

  Stepping up to the bed, she whispered, “Hi, George. It’s Jane Lawless. I want you to know how sorry I am that I got you involved. I’ve been thinking about you, pulling for you. I hope we can talk sometime soon.” Turning at the sound of footsteps, she backed away as a nurse came in. “Hi,” said Jane. “How’s George doing this morning?”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “Friend.”

  The nurse took a moment to reset one of the machines. “His condition has been upgraded from critical to serious. His vital signs are stable.”

  “Has he been awake?”

  “Not yet.” She checked the drip on a fluid bag.

  “Where’s Marlo?”

  “I encouraged her to go home, take a shower, and put on some clean clothes. I don’t think she got much sleep last night.”

  “Has anyone else been up to see him today?” Jane wasn’t sure how worried she should be that one of the Chenoweths might try to finish the job they started.

  “No, I don’t believe so. A number of people have called about him. His cousin in Montana called two or three times.”

  “Male or female cousin?”

  “No idea. I didn’t take the calls.” The nurse stepped up to a whiteboard on the wall across from the bed, erased the previous day’s date and wrote the current day’s.

  With nothing left to do, Jane whispered goodbye to George and headed back to the elevators, glad, at least, that she hadn’t run into Marlo.

  * * *

  In the report Nicole Gunness had compiled, Jane learned that Trevor Loy, th
e man who’d dropped the bombshell at Rashad’s trial, was living in supportive housing for people with mental health issues. At the time of the trial, her father’s conclusion was that his hyperverbal behavior when he’d met with Rashad at the condo was most likely due to his being high on drugs or alcohol. His mental health issues seemed to be the actual reason.

  Jane didn’t hold out a lot of hope that Trevor would talk to her. Still, it was important for her to give it a shot.

  The small, one-and-a-half-story house was close to Minnehaha Creek, and also close to bus lines and light rail. Jane stood on the front steps and rang the bell, hoping Loy would be around. She didn’t have his phone number, so there was no other way to contact him. She spent a few seconds flipping through her phone to see if Cordelia had responded to a text from earlier that morning. Jane needed to tell her about George’s accident, if that’s what it was. Since it was going on eleven, Cordelia was likely in the midst of her Sunday morning routine: Rising late, a leisurely bath, and breakfast as she scoured the Star Tribune and the Twin Cities Pioneer Press, occasionally augmented by the New York Times if Bolger happened to be out and about and picked one up.

  As Jane brought up her personal calendar, a short, compactly built black man drew back the door.

  “Help you?” he asked.

  “I hope so. I’m looking for Trevor Loy.”

  “Yeah? How come?”

  “Are you Trevor?”

  “Maybe.”

  She handed him a card. “My name’s Jane Lawless.”

  “Lawless,” he repeated, sticking an unlit cigar into the side of his mouth. “You any relation to—”

  “He’s my father. I’m an investigator. I’m looking into some issues surrounding the Gideon Wise murder.”

  “That case was already solved, lady.”

  “May I come in?”

  He hesitated. “I guess.”

  As she crossed in front of the man, she noticed that he had a heavy hand with cologne. The living room was homey: brown carpet, a small TV in the corner, some comfortable-looking furniture. Magazines. Everything was neat.

  Trevor dumped himself onto the couch. “Make it quick, okay? I gotta get ready for work.”

  “I really only have one question,” she began. “Did anyone pressure you to testify at Rashad May’s trial?”

  “What? No,” he said, bouncing his leg. “No way.”

  “Everything you said was true?”

  “You saying I lied?”

  “Do you know a cop named Dean Frick?”

  He appeared to think it over, but he wasn’t much of an actor. Dropping the unlit cigar into the pocket of his shirt, he said, “Yeah, I may have met the man.”

  “I hear he’s not a fan of the LGBT community.”

  Trevor shrugged.

  “He never pressured you in any way?”

  “Tell me, lady: You ever see Rashad?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “How do you think? He’s in prison. For something he didn’t do.”

  Trevor grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it.

  “You could help get him out, if you wanted.”

  “How? You asking me to name names? Screw that. I tell you what you want to know and I can kiss my freedom goodbye. Maybe even my life.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Frick, he don’t play games. And anyway, who’d believe a guy who’s spent the last two years in and out of mental health lockups? I’m crazy, don’t you know that?” He flashed his eyes at her. “Look, I did what I did because I had no choice. It was me or Rashad. I picked me.”

  “What did Frick have on you?”

  “Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.” He stood, shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s all I gotta say.”

  As she reached the door, he gripped her arm and spun her around.

  “You tell anyone about this conversation and I promise, you’ll regret it.”

  She studied him. All these years later and the guy was still terrified. “Thanks for your time, Trevor.”

  29

  Marlo dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom. As she removed her coat, she noticed a tote bag with the letters JHC resting on the bed. Scattered around it were all the rock posters she’d collected in college, most of them creased or ripped beyond repair. Picking up the tote, she glanced inside, vaguely remembering that Jane Lawless had mentioned a tote last night on the phone. Marlo couldn’t even begin to imagine that there was a connection between the tote and George’s accident, so she set it aside and began to undress. Before she entered the bathroom, her cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” she said, opening the closet door to grab some clean clothes.

  “Marlo?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Amy Atchison, Chuck’s wife?”

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

  “Well—”

  “It’s about Chuck. I got a voice mail from him last night saying he’s coming home. I tried calling him, but he doesn’t answer. I want you to tell that bastard that if he thinks he’s coming back here, he’s got another think coming. I threw him out weeks ago. Contacted a lawyer. The divorce is already in the works.”

  “I had no idea,” said Marlo, sitting down on the bed.

  “Isn’t he staying with you?”

  “Yeah, for the last few days. But he said nothing about any problems.”

  “He’s a walking problem. He was fired from this job, too, in case he didn’t tell you that. I talked to the wife of one of the other lawyers and finally found out what was going on. He’d been trying to bed half a dozen women at the law firm, threatening to get each one fired if she didn’t play ball. The firm found out. That’s why he left so fast.”

  “When did that happen? When did he leave?”

  “Almost three weeks ago. He’s a disgusting little turd, pardon my language. I hope he goes to jail. Be careful around him. He fooled me for years.”

  Marlo didn’t know what to say. “I thought he was doing great in Florida, but he told me you wanted to move back here.”

  “Another one of his self-serving lies.”

  “He also said he had this fabulous new boat—”

  “A boat? In his dreams. Don’t believe anything that man says to you. Look, just tell him to stay the hell away from me. Tell him that if he comes back here I’ll make sure the police know about it. If he wants to see his little girl, he can hire a lawyer. Just between us, I don’t think he’s got enough money left to hire a cab.”

  After ending the call, Marlo put her clothes back on and trotted down the steps to the first floor, heading straight for Chuck’s room. The door was closed. She didn’t knock. She found him lying on his back, mouth flapping open, the covers pulled up to his neck.

  Throwing open the shades, Marlo whirled around.

  He didn’t move.

  The idea of touching him disgusted her. Noticing a half-empty bottle of beer on the nightstand, she tossed what was left over his face.

  He sputtered and opened his eyes. “Wha … Marlo? What the hell?”

  She smiled. “Not going to church this morning, Chuckie?”

  He sat up, wiping his face. “Did you just pour beer on me?”

  She held her palms up, eyes rising to the ceiling. “Must be raining.” She stomped over to the closet and pulled out one of his suitcases. Tossing it on the bed, she went back to the closet and began yanking clothes off hangers.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you pack. You’re leaving.”

  “I am?”

  “Your wife called. Said you were planning to head home to Florida. She wanted me to give you a message.”

  He drew back the covers and sat gingerly at the edge of the mattress. “Oh?”

  “For the sake of time, I’ll paraphrase: Go to hell, Chuck. Eat dirt and die.”

  Whatever his reaction, he processed it silently. “Did she say any
thing else?”

  “About you being fired? About the sexual harassment? About the police wanting to talk to you? And oh my gosh, there’s no luxury cabin cruiser. Who knew?”

  When he stood, Marlo ordered him to sit back down. She wasn’t about to have a conversation with a man wearing nothing but tighty-whities.

  “Amy’s angry at me.”

  “You think?”

  “Please don’t believe her lies, Marlo.”

  “You’d prefer me to believe yours?” She opened one of the bureau drawers and started pelting him with rolled-up socks.

  “Stop,” he said, batting them away.

  “If you’re not out of here in ten minutes, I’m calling the police.”

  “But … I have nowhere to go.”

  “Try a street corner,” she said. One of her all-time favorite pastimes was telling assholes where to go. This time it was particularly heartwarming. “Ten minutes, Chuck. Not one second more.”

  30

  Charlotte rested on her side on the kitchen table across from Eli, licking and biting at her paw. She wasn’t looking at him, but he knew she was listening. “You don’t know what any of this is,” he said, pulling a pack of shoelaces and a syringe out of a brown paper sack.

  He’d been talking to her a lot since she’d come home with him. She seemed to like the sound of his voice and sometimes purred when he spoke. He’d taken her to a vet on Friday to get her checked out. The vet thought she was less than a year old and, eventually, after poking and prodding, pronounced her healthy. A tech had located a microchip under her skin and had called the owner, only to learn that the number was no longer in service. On Charlotte’s behalf, Eli was furious. How anyone could throw her away was beyond him.

  Charlotte didn’t much like riding in the car, unless she could be inside his coat. She seemed relieved when they got home. She dove immediately for one of her favorite blankets and slept for several hours.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said to her. “The syringe is kind of pokey, but it won’t hurt you.” If only he could promise that nothing would ever hurt her again.