Where were the Burmese servants who cleaned the mansion daily? Who knew what happened at night? Jocelyn's duties, whatever they might be, would not include the taking of guests' coats.
I said, "I guess we have some time on our hands.”
“What do you want here, Mr. Kendrick?"
"To find out more about Teddy."
"For what purpose?"
"To find out who killed him."
"You captured the man yourself."
"No," I said. "I made a mistake."
"I see."
I noticed that she hardly ever blinked, her black eyes filling with jagged incisiveness and emptying again. Her face was completely unmarred by lines of any kind, as if she were incapable of smiling, frowning, or showing a hint of what went on inside. In that moment I would have paid ten grand for a joke that would have made her giggle.
"I see," she repeated. "You feel guilty about the fate of your friend, the gravekeeper, and now you seek to incriminate someone else."
"I like the sound of ‘to cast aspersions' a little better.”
“Do you?"
"But you're wrong. I want to find out who killed Teddy, and why."
We continued our standoff and the wind continued its mad caterwauling. Thunder provided a nice contrapuntal cadence, as rhythmic as a backbeat. Jocelyn had much more patience than me and would undoubtedly win our staring match unless she forfeited by falling over dead from boredom.
"What nationality are you?" I asked.
"I was born in Hong Kong."
"I'd like to see Teddy's room."
Without hesitation she said, "All right."
That was too easy, and I wondered why.
She dimmed the lights once more and led me to the staircase. Again she faded into the shadows, reappearing only when she turned her head enough so that I could catch a glimpse of the pale angle of her cheek. She glided so smoothly up the steps that she appeared to be floating.
Maybe it was the darkness, the company, or the leftover edginess from Panecraft, but threads of cold sweat trickled down my chest.
I strained my ears hoping to hear Anna's voice or the clatter of silverware, but there was only silence.
"How long have you been with Harnes?" I asked.
"Quite some time."
"Did you know Teddy well?"
"No, not especially. No one did. Teddy was quite reclusive. He preferred to remain remote. Solitary. He found solace in philosophy. Theology. Other more cerebral pursuits. He recently took up painting."
"Did he care about his father's business affairs? The factories? After all, eventually he would have inherited it all.”
“Teddy did not care much for possessions and finances.”
“How did his father feel about that?"
"It made no difference whatsoever."
"A multi-millionaire didn't mind that his son followed more aesthetic pursuits and had no interest in taking over a vast family fortune?"
"Not at all. He cherished Teddy and put the highest value on his son's happiness."
She stopped in the darkness and I brushed against her back. A switch clicked and a portion of the second floor ignited as though lightning had struck nearby. On the walls were several Oriental tapestries and paintings, representations of myths and seascapes mixed side by side with family portraits. A number of beautiful women gaped down at us, some poised, and others who looked highly uncomfortable and even angry.
"Which is Marie Harnes?"
"I don't know."
To the side, separated from the others and at eye level, a much smaller painting showed the face of Diane Cruthers; her shiny luscious lips were turned into an honest but not so pretty smile, gazing out across a mansion she hadn't lived long enough to step foot inside. Her face was slightly turned, like she might be on the verge of laughter, exactly the same way as in the photo in Anna's album. A character trait, then. Her hair was much shorter.
What pregnant woman commits suicide?
We continued down the corridor to Teddy's room.
It hardly looked any different from Crummler's shack. Entirely bare except for a bed, dresser, desk, and a small bookshelf with a dozen or so books lying on their sides in stacks. Lowell had been right, if felt like a monk's cell. The stink of polish was overpowering; every surface sparkled. I drew my finger along the shelf and found it totally dust free.
Since we'd already established that I was completely rude, I decided to open a dresser drawer. It slid back too easily on its rollers and slapped me in the knees. There were only two shirts within.
Jocelyn's hand wrapped around my wrist and she squeezed until the tiny bones in my fist started to grind together. It took all my effort not to yelp. I let go of the drawer handle and she let go of me.
"Why do you insist on this type of behavior, Mr. Kendrick? I allowed you access to this room because I don't want you pestering Mr. Harnes with these ridiculous antics."
On Teddy's shelf were three books lying on their sides with severely cracked spines, as if he'd taken them down and reread them many times. On top, with a few dust jacket chips, lay Lao-Tzu Te-Tao Ching: A new translation based on the recently discovered Ma-Wang-Tui texts by Robert G. Hendricks. Below rested Kwo Da-Wei's Chinese Brushwork: Its History, Aesthetics, and Techniques, and an older copy of Ta T'Ung Shu's The One-World Philosophy of K'ang Yu-Wei, published in London by George Allen & Unwin in 1958.
I flipped through them and spotted extensive handwritten notes in tiny, clear print on the subject of painting. Beneath the back flap of the Brushwork dust jacket I found several neatly folded papers. I opened a few and saw they were ink drawings of women. He'd even drawn on the end pages and on the inside back cover with pencil: fruit, junk boats, seascapes, and more women.
I recognized the books as fairly uncommon titles. My former assistant Debi Kiko Mashima used to handle a great deal of my foreign first editions and their translations, and took to stocking volumes on Japanese culture and society, as well as other books on Asian thought, craft, and history. Just inside each front cover a cardboard strip poked out: bookmarks. I checked and saw the store stamp.
It was my store.
I would have remembered an online order if I'd mailed it to my home county. There hadn't been any. That meant Teddy had come into my shop sometime in the last few months.
I'd met him and hadn't even known it.
"You look disturbed," Jocelyn said.
“No."
"What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Put those down." She didn't wear a watch and there were no clocks in the room, but as though some silent alarm had gone off Jocelyn stiffened and lifted her chin. "They will be taking desert and drinks in the library soon. Follow if you must."
I looked out the window and saw a figure lurking in the darkness. I took a step closer, peered down, and watched Nick Crummler standing on the front lawn in the rain, staring back up at me.
TEN
Despite the historical fireplace, dark pine paneling, a huge finely detailed wooden globe of the ancient world, and marble chess pieces set upon a mahogany table-board, the library held all the appeal of a diorama. It lacked any real ambiance, and came off more like a setting in a wax museum.
The room spread out large as a ballroom, and guests milled as though ready for the countdown to New Year's. Built in shelving ran sixteen-feet high, with two rolling ladders on either side of the library. Instead of rare originals, most of the books were cheap facsimiles, faux-leather-bound sets of the Masterpieces of Literature, World's One Hundred Greatest Novels, encyclopedias, and a ton of outdated law books, as well as several duplicate series of novels and journals. Haines simply wanted to fill the shelves, and didn't care with what.
Chatter enveloped the room. No one seemed puzzled or surprised as to why they'd been invited here in a time of supposed grief. There was a lot of laughter. Nobody took any notice of me. Jocelyn drew attention, chins snapping up around the room. People turned and watched as she glided past. Th
e smarm factor rose a thousand percent as wealthy single men swarmed and surrounded her. They didn't seem to mind each other. I hoped she might smile, out of courtesy, as she was offered lit cigarettes and snifters of cognac, but the band of grinning attendants couldn't garner so much as a grimace from her.
I walked among them listening to the small talk, gossip and tattling. Anna spoke with Harnes off in the farthest corner where nobody bothered them. Clearly they were in deep discussion and had been for some time, perhaps the entire evening. Harnes wore an artificial smile, his hands out in front of him hanging emptily in a gesture of unconcern. They had the ease of old friends, or very good new friends, which perhaps they were. My stomach tied into timber-hitch knots.
Sheriff Broghin glared and glowered at Oscar Kinion among a group of laughing land barons from the southern edge of the county. Oscar appeared to be enjoying the fact that he upset Broghin so much, and sat drinking and smirking a little. Still, he kept checking over his shoulder at Anna, and I could tell he was growing more and more disconcerted. Alice Conway stood alone near the globe, forlorn and on the verge of tears, also watching the corner where Harnes and my grandmother kept talking. I wondered where Brian Frost could be. Harnes hadn't made the mistake of inviting Lowell here tonight.
Others told bad jokes and discussed economics and got drunk and ate desert, and I couldn't see any way to get anything from anyone.
A woman wearing a little French maid outfit wandered among the guests serving drinks. Talk about a thankless job; she wore a bustiere and her hair up in a French twist, the little skirt and apron giving an extra-fine inch here and there. She wasn't from Burma. When she got a bit closer I saw it was Daphne Kupfer, her lips set so tightly they were colorless.
"Hi, Daphne," I said.
"Jonny," she said, and her eyes narrowed into two short angry wedges. I'd never seen anybody do it quite that way before, her entire face thinning and becoming redefined by the squint. "What are you doing here?"
"Just dropped by."
"You're not on the guest list."
"How long have you worked for Theodore Harnes?”
“Every once in a while to make some extra money." She tried to answer naturally enough but the words caught on barbs. Harnes made her wear the maid outfit in order to use her as thoroughly and openly as he could, complete with the frilly little headpiece. A punishment of some kind? For talking to me? For causing some kind of stir when he'd passed her over for the embraces of Alice Conway?
Daphne shifted nervously, hoping to recess her cleavage. "What the hell are you after?" she asked, backing away and drifting off. "Whatever it is you're just going to get yourself in trouble."
"I'm sorry," I said softly, and I was.
I could smell Oscar's aftershave from here.
Broghin and Oscar were both drunk and slurring and miffed, but appeared to have reached a deadlock. Broghin could only stick to his juvenile jealousy, and Oscar could do nothing about it but take exception and note a resentful man's grudge. "You've got no call to take that tone with me, Sheriff."
"I'll take whatever tone I want."
"Not with me you won't. I've had enough of your hateful manner."
"You have, eh?"
"You heard me, I think. You have something to say, then let's get out with it."
"I've got nothing to say."
"Hell, that much I already picked up."
"Is that a fact now?"
"It is."
Broghin mopped his brow with a wadded dirty napkin, the high-priced smooth liquor bringing out two large round red circles on his flushed cheeks. He kept blinking and looked wobbly on his feet, not nearly as angry as I was used to seeing him. He started teetering just enough to get his belly moving, picking up momentum. His heartache was evident, and I knew it wasn't all because of Anna and Oscar. It had cost him something to lock Crummler away, the joyous man he'd danced with.
"She's a fine woman," the sheriff said.
"I know it."
"And a good friend of mine."
"So she's told me, though I hardly know why."
Oscar kept glancing around at the walls as though expecting wild animals heads to suddenly appear instead of all these books. He blinked a lot too, and although he didn't teeter, he had a tremble working through his legs, as if an awful chill had grabbed hold of him and he couldn't get free.
"You don't need to know much besides that," Broghin said.
"Is that so?"
"It is."
"You always this damn sociable?"
I walked off. Alice Conway looked even more lost and scared as the night went on. She obviously wanted to talk to Harnes and continued to float around him, wafting in and out among the other guests, but she didn't want to impede on his conversation with Anna. I could only guess at what he'd make her wear if she ever made him dissatisfied. Every time Daphne spun by Alice sparks passed between them. I wondered if they had both been Harnes' lover at one time or another, and if Daphne had been completely ousted by Alice, intentionally or not, or if they'd both only been after Teddy. For some ugly reason, I also wondered if their mothers had been his lovers as well, and if, in fact, Alice and Daphne were actually his daughters.
People brushed shoulders with mine and continued talking without skipping a beat. Pompadours had sneaked back into style, and several white-haired gentlemen wore their hair up high and thick with sculpting mousse like Baptist televangelists. Conversations circulated around me, discussions ranging from stocks and politics to the latest sitcoms and sports statistics. The strata of the county could be noticed as clearly as striations in an emptied quarry. Nobody mentioned Teddy.
Time ran at a new pace as I waited for Shanks to join the party. Over an hour passed and I still felt wet from the rain. I circled back and Oscar and Broghin were talking guns and duck hunting and had reached that point of being drunk when the world is a happy place and you love absolutely everybody in it. Before long they would settle into a friendship of sorts, maybe even before they passed out, but they needed to do so if they both intended to remain close to Anna. She could deal with the male rivalry, but not with petulance.
My grandmother finally caught my eye.
Years dropped to the floor around us like dead leaves, or bodies. I couldn't read anything in her features, and that frightened me. It seemed as if our lives unfurled for an instant until we were both the same age, eighteen or so, neither of us more secure or smarter than the other. I saw her in the photo again, side by side with Diane Cruthers. Harnes had drawn her back into the dead past. When Anna spoke to him did she see a murderer, or a man she might have loved? Or a fate she had barely avoided? I tried to read her eyes but something kept shifting there.
Jocelyn appeared at my side and I backed out of the room with her gaze sutured to me. With Alice here I had a chance to check out the house in High Ridge, and see if Teddy actually was alive and hidden or snared inside, the way Crummler had become trapped in the heart of Panecraft. I backed out another step and Harnes turned now as well, and we made a pact of sorts. Again came the live pressure but no sense of a living presence, less intimidating than Oscar's aftershave. Harnes quickly snapped back into himself this time, no longer unassuming and fading out of existence. He grew more substantial as the seconds flew by. Shanks would have called him, and seeing me must have proven to Harnes that I wouldn't be letting go of this. A part of me reeled thinking that perhaps Anna had actually had an affair with him—and more than that, so much more than that, the idea that I might be his grandson. I looked into his eyes and took my time to dig deep, hunting through whatever it was he wanted to show me, and I saw that down in there, with all the rest of his coiled malice, rested the dormant, but still deadly, dragon.
~ * ~
A dark and thrashing animal, the night continued to squirm with wind and rain. I sat in the van praying that Anna knew what she was doing, and that I had at least a little more time to get Crummler out of Panecraft. I still had the vague sense that somehow I was too
slow and standing outside the rest of the world, watching everyone else cruising along. I needed to pick up my pace.
I drove down the slick private road and reached for the cell phone. I should have called Lowell after I left the hospital, but I'd been too worried. I hoped Brent could keep Shanks in line for a few more days. Crummler would fail his psychological examination, and instead of going to jail he would be kept in Panecraft for the rest of his life, along with Christ only knew how many others Theodore Harnes had left locked up to rot.
I coasted past the stone lions, out from beneath Harnes' arcing name twisted in metal, and Nick Crummler disengaged from the convulsing shadows. He stepped out into the open and walked toward the van. I stopped and he got in.
Even seated he kept himself crimped, low and tensed. Streams of water slithered across his face and ran down his badly trimmed beard, pooling in the seams of his black overcoat. He was soaked, but somehow didn't appear to actually be wet, as if only a moment of blotting with a handkerchief would have dried him completely. Someone so used to being out in the elements had a thousand ways of countering cold and rain, most importantly by ignoring them.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
The wary edge in his shrewd, discerning eyes lifted a little. "Rummaging through their garbage, of course, what else? Figured there might be lots of good food going to waste. I was right."
It was only partly a joke. The odor of fresh shellfish and dill sauce flowed off him, and I could tell that Harnes had served crab meat quiche for appetizers. Nick Crummler's gaping pockets were stuffed with crumbling bits of hors d'oeuvres. I would have offered to take him out to dinner if I wasn't so sure he'd turn me down.
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