by Ellen Hart
“But?”
“There were times when she got super nasty, especially with other women. She had very few female friends, as far as I could tell.”
“Not as easy to manipulate as men?”
“Huh?” The comment seemed to catch him off guard. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”
“Can you give me an example of her nastiness?”
“Well, I mean, there was one time when this girl, her name was Stacy, was sitting next to Eli. There were about a dozen of us at the bar that night. We all knew each other. Some people were dating, some were just there to hang out. Anyway, Stacy seemed really into Eli, laughing at all his lame jokes, the kind the rest of us would groan at. When Stacy got up to go to the women’s room, Kit followed her. And then, when they came back, Kit sat down next to Eli and Stacy grabbed her coat and left. If you want to know the truth, she seemed kind of scared to me, so I asked her about it later. She said, in no uncertain terms, that Kit was a psycho bitch and that someone should tell Eli to be careful.”
“What did you think of that?”
“Probably just a catfight. I can’t see Kit actually hurting her. Although—”
Jane waited.
“That woman could turn on a dime. You did something she didn’t like, and you better watch out. When she was angry, she’d get this stone-cold look in her eyes. Always made me want to run for the hills.”
“You knew she married Eli’s father?”
“What? Seriously? John Henry?”
“Peter didn’t say anything to you?”
“No. Wow. That is seriously … wrong. He must be thirty years older than her.”
“Did you know John Henry well?”
“Not well, and I never liked him. Back then, I’d throw a party every few months. I’d buy a keg and some munchies and others would bring the harder stuff. If I invited Eli, John Henry would show up too, totally uninvited. Usually late in the evening. Always alone. He’d have a few beers or a few hits of weed, start dancing around, kind of in his own world. Sometimes he’d grab one of the girls and spin her around. I know most of them thought he was fun, eccentric, a real free spirit. I thought he was old, and strange—way stranger than Eli.” Ted tipped his glass back and finished the beer.
Jane could tell he wanted to get going. “One last question: Can you see any of them being violent?”
He considered it. “Nah. Not really.”
“This has been helpful.”
“Good, I’m glad. But, you know, I gotta get home.”
She stood and walked him out, glad that he’d been able to provide her with some much-needed perspective. Most importantly, he’d given her a possible motive for Eli being in the condo that night. She had a lot more work to do to figure out what had actually gone down, but it was Kit, once again, who continued to dominate her thoughts. Even if she didn’t have anything to do with Gideon’s death, Jane feared she had her sights set on Peter. Gideon’s murder was part of an investigation, but with Peter, it was far more personal.
* * *
Charlotte was curled into a ball on the couch, snoozing. Eli had spent the last half hour playing with her, dragging a feather on a string around his bed as she tried to grab it. She seemed to love these little games. When they were done, she’d butted her head against his legs again and again, sliding her body along his shins. They were learning about each other. He’d spent a great part of the afternoon watching YouTube videos on cat behavior.
Standing at the kitchen counter, Eli was almost finished with a bowl of cereal when the doorbell rang. Charlotte woke instantly and stood, her tail swishing. When he answered the door, Eli found Kit outside, wearing a black dress he’d never seen before. So she’s dressing sexy for Peter now, he thought acidly. The idea launched him into an instant bad mood.
“Are you alone?” she asked.
“Am I ever not alone?” He stepped back so she could enter. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Charlotte make a mad dash for the bedroom. “You’re early.”
“I am?” she said, setting her purse on the kitchen table.
“Figured you and Lawless would rent yourselves a no-tell motel room for a few of hours of hot sex.”
“Just shut up,” she said sharply, parking herself at the table. “I told you: He’s a friend. That’s it.” She pulled on a strand of her hair, “I will say, I don’t like lying to him.”
“Oh, come on.”
“That story you thought up about selling Gideon a painting? It was such a godawful mishmash, I can’t believe he bought any of it. Now I’m not so sure he did.”
“We had to tell him something. Like you said, we couldn’t tell him the truth.”
“You mean the fact that you couldn’t keep your pants zipped?”
He needed a drink. “You still hold that against me, don’t you?”
“Nailing your dealer’s girlfriend wasn’t exactly the action of a playboy genius. And beyond that, how on earth could you be into him for so much money?”
“We’ve had this conversation a thousand times. I used the product instead of selling it.”
“If he hadn’t been so pissed off at you about his girlfriend—”
“But he was. And when he demanded the money I owed him, what could I do? Gideon’s condo was a freakin’ treasure trove, Kit. The guy was a jewelry magnet. He had so much bling that there was no way he could keep track of it all.”
“Have you ever thought that if it hadn’t been for your poor execution that night, we might still be together?”
“Sure, I’m always the one to blame.” He threw himself down on a chair.
His father had forced him into rehab when he’d found out that a drug dealer wanted to break his son’s legs. Moving to California had seemed like a pretty good idea. “You still blame me for sleeping with her, don’t you? That’s why you broke up with me.”
“I broke up with you because you’re an idiot,” said Kit. “Sex is an itch. It’s like eating a sandwich. Why would I assign moral weight to something like that?”
He wasn’t sure he liked that. “What did Peter say about his sister’s investigation?”
“There’s no real evidence that links the gallery to Gideon’s murder, just a bunch of theories she can’t prove. Even so, she thinks you did it, that you murdered Gideon.”
He closed his eyes “I should go to the police, talk to them.”
“Eli, no. Just think about it. Why give them the opportunity to trip you up? You think you could handle a police interrogation?”
“It wouldn’t be like that. I’d just talk to them.”
“You’re not thinking clearly.” Hesitating, she asked, “You’re not using again, are you?”
“No. Relax. I’m just saying, with my luck, Rashad will get a new trial, be acquitted, and I’ll end up in prison.”
She searched his face. “Can we be honest for once? Really, truly honest? I wasn’t there with you that night. Did you actually make it up to his condo? You can tell me. You know I’d never judge you.”
“No, Kit. The part about getting cold feet, that was true. I never saw Gideon.”
“Okay.”
“You believe me?”
“Of course. I just needed to ask.”
“I could ask the same thing of you,” said Eli. “Did you lie to me about what you did?”
“Do we have to rehash this all over again? Aren’t you sick of it? I sure as hell am.”
“Except I can’t shake the thought that someone recognized you.”
“Listen carefully. This is the last time I’m going to say it: I got off the elevator on the ninth floor and found police crawling all over it. I had no idea what was going on. One of the uniforms asked me what I was doing and I said I was there to see Bree Mitchell.”
“That was smart of you, looking at the names over the mailboxes in the lobby.” Kit had been so disgusted with him when he’d returned home empty-handed, shooting up before she could get the full story out of him, that she’d drive
n back to the condo to get the job done herself. “You’re absolutely positive that the cop who stopped you didn’t think something was fishy?”
“No, baby. There was so much going on that he barely looked at me. He just told me it was a crime scene and I had to leave.”
Eli leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “This is such a mess.”
“It’s not. You were never inside the condo, and neither was I.”
“Right,” he whispered, feeling like a man buried alive under an avalanche of lies.
“Are you ready for my second news flash?”
“Oh God,” he whispered.
“Peter asked his sister to look into Harper’s homicide.”
“What?”
“Apparently you told him she was a victim of a serial killer. Is that why you’re reading all those kinky books?”
“She was murdered by a serial killer, the same one who killed a woman up north.”
“Afraid not, baby. They caught that woman’s murderer a couple of days ago. He was an ex-boyfriend.”
Eli wiped a shaky hand across his mouth. Removing a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, he lit up.
“Eli, what’s going on?”
“For all I know you did it.”
“Killed Harper?”
When the weight of her eyes on him was too much to bear he said, “If Peter’s sister is right about the gallery and Gideon, then I’d say her suspects are me, you, and Dad.”
“Your dad had nothing to do with it.”
“He’s human, Kit, which means he’s capable of doing bad things.”
“No disagreement there.”
Something in her tone caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up.
“He’s weak, Eli. If I’ve learned anything about him in the last few years, it’s that. He could never pull something like that off. Besides, his closet is already crammed to the rafters with secrets.”
“Are you ever going to tell me about any of them?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Do I have to beat it out of you?”
The comment elicited a smile.
“Come on. I can take it.” He took another drag, then stubbed the cigarette out on a dirty plate.
“If I do tell you, it will come as a shock.”
“Stop stalling.”
She tugged her chair closer to the table. “I’m royally sick of keeping this to myself. Next time you’re over at our house, check out his computer in the den. Look for file 3113. Write the number down or you’ll forget.”
“I can remember.”
“No you can’t, genius. Write it down.”
He scooped a pen off the table and wrote it on his arm.
“If, after you’ve looked at the file, you should decide to drop a bomb and let your dad know you found out, don’t mention me.”
“Because? Are you afraid of him?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much?”
“Huh? Look, I don’t want our marriage to blow up before I’m ready. That’s all I’m saying.”
That could be the reason, but Eli wasn’t so sure. There were times when he actually did think she was afraid of his dad. “What qualifies as ‘ready’?”
“None of your business.” She made a bridge of her fingers and rested her chin on top. “Now. Did you buy me that tracking device like you promised?”
“It’s already installed on Dad’s car.”
Her face brightened. “Perfect.”
He took a few minutes to install an app on her phone and walk her through how to use it.
“So,” said Kit, dropping the phone back in her purse, “better head home.”
He didn’t want her to go. “Stay. We can watch a movie.”
“It’s late. You seriously want to watch TV?”
“No, I seriously want to have sex with you.”
She groaned. “You’re a broken record.”
He tapped out another cigarette. “You too tied up with Lawless these days to give me a chance? You loved me once, Kit. It can be like that again.”
She pushed her chair back and stood up.
Before she reached the door, Eli darted in front of her, blocking her path.
“Get out of my way.”
“I will, but first I need a goodbye hug.”
She studied him, then, grudgingly, put her arms around him. “There. We good?”
Feeling for the zipper on the back of her dress, he began to draw it down.
She shoved him away, but he held on to her arms.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Don’t you love me just a little?”
“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.”
“What about now? This moment.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“But I’m your asshole, if you want me.”
She stared at him a moment, then said, “Oh, crap,” and began unbuckling his belt.
“You’re everything to me, Kit.” He pulled her down to the floor. “I’ll never disappoint you again, I promise.”
“Shut up. And take your hands off me or I’m out of here.”
“Sure, whatever you say.” Okay, so this wasn’t the way he’d imagined it, but she wouldn’t have stayed if she didn’t care a little. He would hold on to that for dear life.
33
It seemed like an eternity since Marlo had visited that awful psychic. As she stood at George’s bedside, stroking his hair, listening to the beeps from various machines, she continued to resist the notion that the woman really had paranormal powers. What had happened to George was a coincidence, pure and simple.
“I love you, sweetheart,” she said, leaning over to kiss his forehead. “Love” was such an overused word that it struck her as trite. But what other words were there? “Adore”? “Worship”? “I hold you in high esteem. I, like, revere you.” After another few seconds of deep consideration, she came up with something she could live with. “I’m crazy about you, George,” she said.
Leaning on the rail, hunkering down closer to his ear, she continued, “I want everything to be the way it was, except … well, it would be nice if—now don’t get upset—if we could … you know, have a baby. I realize I don’t project an ideal motherly image, but there are lots of motherly types, wouldn’t you agree? In fact, you could do the dress-up part with the kid, and I could teach her how to throw a ball and ride a motorcycle. It’s a workable plan. While you’re recuperating, give it some thought.” He was still unconscious, and she didn’t know for sure if he would recuperate, but she was making every effort to stay positive.
The nurses had encouraged her talk to him, even play music for him. Her words didn’t have to be anything deep or philosophical, just ordinary stuff, they’d said. Something about the intimate act of conversing, even if it was only one-sided, made her feel less alone. He probably couldn’t hear her, but she decided to operate on the notion that he could. “Like I said, don’t get all hot and bothered about the baby thing. I just wanted to chuck that into the conversational pool. Wouldn’t it be incredible to have a little George or a little Marlo running around our condo? We’d have to make a pact not to spoil her.”
She pulled a chair over close to the bed and sat down. Holding his hand, she said, “News flash: I kicked Chuck out. The guy’s a sexual predator and a liar. I never liked him, now I have an actual reason. I feel so bad for his poor wife and daughter. But they’re better off without him. I assume we only know a tiny fraction of what he’s done. Let’s hope he spends the rest of his miserable life fighting off perverts behind bars.”
She thrashed around inside her mind for a new topic. “I talked to Jane Lawless last night. That woman called you five times yesterday. Five times. Something about a tote bag. I found it on the bed when I went back home this morning to take a shower and change clothes. What the hell is going on, George?” She realized she was squeezing his hand way too hard. “Sorry,” she said quickly, easing
up. “I’m just frustrated.”
She attempted to regroup. “What about this? Do you remember when we told each other what our dream jobs would be? I’ve been thinking about that. I said I wanted to be the commissioner of baseball and you said you wanted to be a tailor. You said you’d mentioned it to your dad once and he’d laughed, figured you were kidding. I checked it out on the internet. Setting aside the fact that tailoring pays less than an entry-level bank teller, there are some classes you could take at Hennepin Technical College. Maybe we should look into it when you’re feeling better.”
A nurse came in and began checking George’s vitals.
“How’s he doing?” asked Marlo.
“About the same.” When the woman leaned over to look at him more closely, she jumped. “Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“His eyes fluttered. There it is again. Say his name.”
Standing and clearing her throat, Marlo said, “George? Marlo here. Time to wake up and talk to me. I didn’t mean to squeeze your fingers so hard before.”
“Squeeze them again,” ordered the nurse.
A few moments after Marlo took his hand again, George’s eyes opened. And stayed open.
“I need to get a doctor,” said the nurse, rushing out.
“Oh, George,” said Marlo, stroking the side of his face. “Stay with me. We can talk about anything you like, even … even men’s fashion.” She gritted her teeth. “Or we could talk about cars. I saw this rocket in a showroom a few weeks ago.”
He closed his eyes.
Wrong topic. “What about our baby? Have you thought at all about that?”
His eyes opened and angled ever so slightly toward her.
She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. But before she could make another conversational stab, the doctor arrived and said he needed her to leave for a few minutes.
“I’ll be back, George,” she called to him from the doorway. “If it’s a girl, I think we should name her Camilla or Penelope, or maybe even—” The nurse closed the door. “—Anastasia,” Marlo said, to no one in particular.
