Twisted at the Root--A Jane Lawless Mystery

by Ellen Hart

  “Why not? It’s … lively. I like Aerosmith.”

  “Uh huh. And, something else. This may sound off the wall, but I swear I heard you discussing baby names.”

  “Did I? That’s odd.”

  “Is it? Did you?”

  “Let me think. Yes, I suppose I may have.”

  “Any particular reason? You were in and out of the bathroom all morning. If one had a vivid imagination, such as myself, one might conclude that you have a touch of morning sickness.”

  “Would they?” For Marlo, this was a now-or-never moment. “If the woman in question did have morning sickness, would the man in question be happy about it or sad?”

  “Oh, happy. Indeed, without hesitation.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but only theoretically.”

  “What if it wasn’t just a theory?”

  “I think we should have a baby-name discussion, Marlo. One I can actually be a part of, not floating around somewhere in the ether.”

  “About theoretical names for a theoretical baby.”

  “Precisely.”

  She loved him more in this moment than she ever thought possible. She shuffled the deck. “I was thinking Anastasia, if it was a girl.”

  “And if it’s a boy, how about George the second?”

  “Are we officially in negotiations?”

  He smiled at her. “I think we are.”

  * * *

  When Cordelia returned home that night after spending the afternoon at the police station with Jane, Peter, and eventually Jane’s father, she was an exhausted wreck of a woman in need of a Thorn Boilermaker—a glass of black cherry soda and a stiff shot of creme de cacao. She had a little bundle to take up to her bedroom before she came back down to the kitchen.

  Peter had spoken to an investigator at the police station for a couple of hours. When he was done, he’d come out to the waiting room where she, Jane, and Ray were having a private conversation. He said he hadn’t been asked more than a couple of questions about the night he’d asked Rashad out for a drink. Because the police didn’t seem interested in pursuing this line of questioning, Peter appeared to feel emboldened, still resisting the notion that he’d lied on the stand. He called an Uber shortly thereafter and left, though not before asking his dad to call him if he learned anything more.

  Cordelia’s reaction was far different. She couldn’t seem to stop fuming about Kit’s pathetic chutzpah. Kit had vehemently pleaded her innocence to anyone who would listen. Both Eli and Kit were booked, though not before Kit had asked to speak to Ray privately. She’d pleaded with him to represent her if the worst happened and she was arrested for murder. Ray, being of sound mind and not given to masochism, declined. The worst part was, Ray indicated that it could be months—or longer—before it all got sorted out. In the meantime, Rashad would stay in prison.

  And so, it was dark by the time Cordelia drove Jane home. Now, turning on the light in the breakfast room, ready to dissolve into a heap at the table, she was surprised to find an envelope addressed to Hattie. She fingered it for a moment, then took her glass and headed back upstairs. Would this day never end? Before knocking on Hattie’s bedroom door, she gazed up at a sign that read: “The Max Planck Bedroom. Remember, you CAN be two places at once.”

  “Can I come in?” she called.

  “Sure,” came Hattie’s muffled voice.

  Cordelia found her niece sitting on the bed, reading. The room, as usual, was a total disaster. Books, clothes, towels, etc. covered almost every surface.

  “I have something for you,” said Cordelia, pulling the envelope from the pocket of her wool cardigan. She set her glass down on the nightstand. “This was downstairs on the table in the breakfast room. It has your name on it.”

  Hattie set the book aside. “Maybe it’s my check.”

  “Check? Skooch over.” Cordelia stuffed a pillow behind her head and stretched out.

  “Peter said he’d pay for me to join the Planetary Society.”

  Cordelia had never heard of the Planetary Society, but she knew her niece had a habit of leaning on people to pay for her various scientific interests.

  “I had breakfast with him the last couple of mornings. He doesn’t think I should eat pie so early in the day.”

  “Heavens. Where did he get such a silly idea?”

  Tearing the envelope open, Hattie smiled and said, “Yup. It’s the check. And a note.”

  “A private note?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then read it to me.”

  Hattie unfolded it. “Dear Hattie. Here’s the check. I hope the Planetary Report is everything you hope it will be. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to you in person—”

  “Goodbye,” said Cordelia.

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Keep going.”

  “—but I’m flying back to London tonight. I’m glad we had a chance to see each other, even if it was only over breakfast. You’re a wonderful girl and I’m proud to be part of your family. I want you to know that when you get a little older, I will fly you to England so we can travel the countryside together searching out archeological sites. Start making a list of what you might want to see. Alas, I’m not very good at keeping in touch, but I promise to email you more often. Keep reading those science books, sweetheart. I love you very much. Peter.”

  Cordelia had tears in her eyes.

  “There’s a P.S.”

  “Which says?”

  “Look around the house. You may find a new furry friend lurking in the shadows.”

  Hattie turned to her aunt. “What’s he mean by that?”

  “Well, I agreed to take care of a sweet little female kitten until her dad gets out of the slammer.”

  “We have a new kitten?”

  “For the moment.”

  “What if the dad never gets out of the slammer?”

  “That would be terribly sad, wouldn’t it? I’d like to think he will.”

  “Sure, but … what would happen if he doesn’t?”

  “I guess we’d have to keep her.”

  “Really?” She squealed. “Where is she now?”

  “On my bed.”

  Hattie was out the door before Cordelia could even say Max Planck.

  43

  The following afternoon, Julia’s plane was on time, which meant Carol would drop her off at the house sometime around six. By five, Jane was working on dinner, one of Julia’s favorites: a simple meatloaf, which would smell wonderful when she walked in the door. Jane also planned to make mashed potatoes, something that had tempted Julia to eat even during some of her worst days on chemo. The champagne was on ice, and the apricot cake was waiting on the counter.

  When Julia finally arrived, though, all thoughts of dinner evaporated. They took their joy at being together again up to the bedroom and spent some … quality … time together. And then, while Julia showered, Jane returned to the kitchen to finish dinner, glad that she’d turned the oven temperature down. The meatloaf was perfect.

  They sat at the kitchen table, eating heartily and talking nonstop. Jane had dozens of questions about what Julia had been doing for the last few days, but decided all that could wait. Julia insisted on hearing every last detail about what had happened in the Wise murder case while she’d been gone. By the time Jane got to that day’s events, they were on the couch in the living room, cradled in each other arms in front of the fire.

  “I called Dad after we found Kit,” said Jane. “His trial had recessed for lunch, so I was able to talk to him. He said to phone the police right away, suggested how to handle Kit’s jewelry box. He wanted me to stress to the police that Kit was a flight risk. If they didn’t detain her, she’d disappear.”

  “On what basis could they detain her?”

  “When I told one of the officers who I was and what I’d been working on, she called someone higher up to come over to the Chenoweth property. I sat with that guy for about an hour. As I was waiting
for him, I called Marlo Wise and asked her if she could describe George’s watch in more detail. She was able to, and she also mentioned that it was worth at least three thousand dollars. They’d had it appraised a few years back.”

  “So if Kit took it and had it in her possession, it would be considered theft?”

  “Right. The next problem was getting into the Chenoweths’ house. The police can’t do that without a search warrant. But, as it turned out, Eli’s name was on the deed. Kit’s wasn’t. Don’t you wonder why John Henry never changed that?”

  “Maybe some part of him saw her for what she was.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, once Eli realized that he might be arrested, he agreed to cooperate. He took them into the house and, of course, there it all was on the bed in the bedroom, just as I’d left it. I’d described the trophies I suspected Kit had taken from her victims, so the cops knew what they were looking for.”

  “What about the recording Eli made?”

  “The police confiscated it.”

  “You probably shouldn’t tape someone without their permission.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” said Jane. “Depends on the state. Some mandate that each party has to consent. Minnesota has a one-person consent law, which means the recording could be legal, except for one small problem: Eli put a gun to her head to get her to talk. Coerced testimony isn’t admissible because what the person says may simply reflect their fear. They tell the interrogator what he wants to hear to get out of a bad situation.”

  “Gee, let me think,” said Julia. “Seems to me the Bush administration used coerced interrogations all over the world and swore by them.”

  “Good point.”

  “Go on.”

  “As it turned out, Eli removed the bullet from the revolver before he played his little game of Russian roulette. He showed the cops how he did it. It was pretty clever. He acted like he was slipping it in, but really, he cupped it in his hand. Kit was never in any real danger, though she thought she was, and that’s what matters.”

  “I imagine she looked pretty scared when Peter brought her out of the house.”

  “Amazingly, no. She came out fighting, insisting that Eli had tried to kill her, that she had nothing to do with any murders, that Eli was looking for someone to pin it on to save his own hide. And on and on. The police took both of them into custody. We all ended up down at the police station. Even Dad eventually arrived.”

  “But other than the recording, which isn’t admissible, and the trophies, what other proof do you have that Kit murdered Gideon?”

  “There was hair evidence found in the bathroom that never matched anyone. I think when they retest it, it will turn out to be Kit’s. As far as George goes, I’m hoping we can get our hands on the security video at the gallery for last Saturday morning. That way, we can see who George talked to. Again, I’m sure it will be Kit. It might even jog his memory.”

  “So with all this new evidence pointing to Kit, will Rashad be set free? Or will he have to be retried?”

  “The former, I would think,” said Jane. “But my father says that nothing is for sure. Whatever happens, it will take a while—perhaps a very long while.”

  “That’s appalling. What about Peter?”

  Jane sighed. “It was a tough day for my brother. But something good came out of it. I think he finally saw Kit for who and what she is. When they first came out of Eli’s house, I could tell they’d had words. Peter had lost all his bravado. He kind of shut down after that, stopped talking. Of course, Kit tried to get him to put his arms around her, but he wouldn’t.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “Yeah. I wish I knew how to help him. He left last night to fly back to London. Never said goodbye to any of us, except for Dad.”

  “Can he do that? Leave the country? What if the police want to talk to him again?”

  “My father talked to him about it, told him that given the amount of time it would take to make any headway in the case, and because the police never asked him to stay in town, going back to England would be okay. He may have to return for a trial, if there is one. Whether or not he gets nailed for perjury in the first trial is something he and Dad will have to sort out. In any case, he’s gone. I guess I still hold out hope that he and Sigrid can repair their marriage. Only time will tell.” Jane turned to face Julia. “Come on now, it’s my turn to ask questions. Tell me why you went to Michigan?”

  Julia gazed into the fire. “This is going to be hard.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to think I’ve gone off the deep end.”

  “Have you?”

  Julia squeezed Jane’s hand. Hesitating a moment more, she said, “I guess it all started when I had that stroke. I never said anything, but I realized, more than I ever had before, that I’m terrified of dying. Truly terrified. I was talking to a doctor friend a while later, and he asked if he could tell me something I’d probably think was off the wall.”

  “Such as?”

  “He did a lot of work in hospice care. In the last couple of years he’d run into several people who’d turned that paralyzing fear around. He suggested I read an article in Scientific American. The title is: ‘Psilocybin: A Journey Beyond the Fear of Death?’”

  “Magic mushrooms?”

  “Yes.”

  “You took them?”

  “It’s not the old hippie idea—sitting under a tree and wigging out. The mushrooms are administered in a medical setting, and a trained guide is with you every minute. There’s preparation before and a discussion—or in my case, many discussions—afterward. I don’t know how to explain what I experienced in a way that won’t sound like I’ve lost my mind. You know I’ve never been religious. But what I had was the most profound experience of my life. I’ve always relied on words, but there are no words. Not for this.”

  It was a lot to take in.

  “I’d like you to read the article. As time goes on, I think I may be able to explain some of it, though nothing I say will ever touch the experience.”

  Jane hesitated. “Okay.”

  “I know. Just give it some time. Unless you’d like to try it yourself.”

  “Not interested, Julia.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “So … you said some of your fear is gone. I’m glad. But what about your treatment going forward? Before you left, you suggested you might not continue with the chemo. I mean, if you do discontinue it, it feels to me like you’re abandoning hope and just waiting to die.”

  Julia drew back. “I know this is difficult.”

  “Then help me understand.”

  “I want to live until I die, Jane, not spend my remaining time being tortured by medical science. All I’ve done for the last six months is rush around. I stay up late reading new studies, I talk to research doctors all over the world. I’m spending so much time trying to stay alive that I’m not living.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “You think I’m giving up.”

  Jane took a deep breath, trying to hold back her tears. “Yeah. I do. From my standpoint, it feels to me like you had a bunch of drug-induced hallucinations and now you think you understand the meaning of life.”

  Julia sat silently for a few minutes. “I can understand that,” she said finally. “And maybe you’re right. But again, it’s my life, so it’s my choice.”

  Jane tipped her head back and closed her eyes.

  “I’ve already stopped the chemo. I did it last week. As I expected, I’ve already begun to feel better. I’ll continue with the pain meds and a few others. I know this may sound silly to you, but except for the cancer, I’m really very healthy.”

  Jane had no idea how to respond.

  “Look, I’ll leave if you want me to. The last thing I mean to do is hurt you. Either way, here or somewhere else, I will die someday, probably sooner rather than later.” She paused, stroking Jane’s arm. “I want to travel. Not for work this time, but for fun.”

 
“But your sight?”

  “Yes, little by little, it’s going. But if you went with me, I could see all these wonderful places again through your eyes. It would be like experiencing them for the first time. I’m not asking you to give up your work. Maybe we could do it every now and then for, say, a week at a time. The memories we’d make would sustain us for a very long time.” Looking into Jane’s eyes, she said, “Will you think about it?”

  “I don’t need to. I want to be with you.”

  “What I said before, I’ll say again: All I ask is one good year with you.”

  “Do you think it’s possible?”

  “I do. But whatever happens, whatever time we have left, I want you to know I’m grateful. You accepted me back into your life when you didn’t have to. You agreed to walk this final path with me. My heart is full because for the first time in my life, I’ve finally found home.”

  Holding Julia tight, Jane gazed silently into the fire, watching the logs shift and sparks rise and die in the air.

  ALSO BY ELLEN HART

  A Whisper of Bones

  Fever in the Dark

  The Grave Soul

  The Old Deep and Dark

  Taken by the Wind

  Rest for the Wicked

  The Lost Women of Lost Lake

  The Cruel Ever After

  The Mirror and the Mask

  Sweet Poison

  The Mortal Groove

  Night Vision

  The Iron Girl

  An Intimate Ghost

  Immaculate Midnight

  No Reservations Required

  Death on a Silver Platter

  The Merchant of Venus

  Slice and Dice

  Hunting the Witch

  Wicked Games

  Murder in the Air

  Robber’s Wine

  The Oldest Sin

  Faint Praise

  A Small Sacrifice

  For Every Evil

  This Little Piggy Went to Murder

  A Killing Cure

  Stage Fright

  Vital Lies

  Hallowed Murder

  About the Author

  ELLEN HART, named the 2017 Mystery Writers of America’s Grandmaster, is the author of more than thirty mysteries. Entertainment Weekly has called her “a top novelist in the cultishly popular gay mystery genre.” She has won multiple Minnesota Book Awards and has been nominated twenty-two times for the Lambda Literary Award, winning six. She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her partner of forty years. You can sign up for email updates here.