by Ellen Hart
“That would be sexual harassment. Not only could I get sued, but I could go to jail. Give me some credit.” Sometimes he lied so easily it worried him.
Shelly dragged the dog into her arms. “I married you because I love you.”
Maybe she did believe that. Maybe he loved her a little, too, in his own way. Before he figured out how to respond, the doorbell rang.
“Let’s talk about this later, okay?” he asked, shrugging into his suit coat.
Shelly scraped tears away from her face. “One of these days I’m going to stop crying and buy myself a gun.”
“It’s a thought,” he called over his shoulder. “We could duel at sunrise.”
“You’re never up until noon. I’d have to shoot you in bed.”
“Cute.” How was he supposed to take a woman hiding behind a Pekingese seriously? He trotted down the stairs to the front door. Switching on the porch light, he found a tough-looking Hispanic man and a middle-aged woman standing outside.
“Mr. Bessetti?” asked the woman, flashing him a badge.
His stomach tightened. “Yes?”
“I’m Sergeant Classen, MPD homicide. This is Sergeant Muñoz. We’d like to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Can we come in?”
His mouth opened and closed twice before anything came out. “Sure,” he said, glancing up the stairs, hoping his wife would stay put in the bedroom.
The cops entered the living room and took chairs on either side of the carved-wood fireplace. Vince turned on a few lamps before sitting down on the antique Chesterfield couch opposite them. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked, but otherwise, the house was quiet.
The woman removed a pad from the pocket of her coat. “Do you know a man named Royal Rudmann?”
“Yes,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“Well now, let’s see. A few months ago, I suppose. No, I take that back. He came to my club before Christmas. I own GaudyLights in downtown Minneapolis. We had a drink, talked for a few minutes. He stuck around for a while, got drunk, and then started mixing it up with one of the other patrons. I had to ask one of the doormen to eject him.”
“Have you talked to him recently?”
He shook his head, wondering if someone had reported seeing his car last night outside Rudmann’s motel room. “We weren’t exactly pals.”
The cop glanced back down at her notes. “Good enough friends, though, to lend him one of your cars.”
Busted. “The Nissan. I can explain that.” He pulled absently at his goatee, remembering, even at a time like this, not to press the hair back and reveal his ridiculously weak chin. “First off, it was a major beater. When Rudmann was let out of St. Peter, he asked for my help. I felt sorry for the guy. You know how it is.”
“Any idea why he was in St. Peter?”
“The mental problems? Sure, I knew. He always seemed normal to me, but yeah, he wasn’t a nice guy.”
“Go on,” prodded the male cop.
“Well, I mean, I never used the car, so it was no sweat to lend it to him.” He twisted the wedding ring on his finger. “Why all the questions about Rudmann? Did he do something bad? Is he okay?”
“He’s dead,” said the female cop. “He was murdered yesterday afternoon at a motel up in Brooklyn Center.”
“Murdered,” said Vince. “How? Who?”
“He filled out a card at the motel that gave his address as 10927 Fairlawn Avenue in St. Paul. We checked. The house belongs to a man named Emmett Washington. You happen to know Mr. Washington?”
“Oh, man, that goes way back. I knew him when I lived in St. Louis. Him and Rudmann and me, and a bunch of other guys, were all on this community baseball team together. I knew he’d moved up here. We haven’t stayed friends.”
The female cop scratched some notes on her pad.
“You have any idea what Mr. Rudmann might have been doing at a motel up in Brooklyn Center?” asked the male cop.
“None.”
“He called your cell phone on Monday morning. You spoke for seven minutes.”
“Oh … yeah, right. I forgot about that.” He could feel sweat forming under his shirt.
“You forgot?” asked the female cop.
“It’s been a rough couple of days. We had a murder outside my club on Sunday night.”
The two police officers exchanged glances.
“DeAndre Moore,” said the male cop to the woman. “Black guy. Late twenties. Seems to me he was from St. Louis.”
“Has to be a coincidence,” said Vince. “I’d never met him, never even seen him before. But, so, I mean, that’s why I forgot. I’ve had a lot on my mind.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Anyway, I guess you could say Rudmann was just checking in. He mentioned that he’d met some guy in a bar who offered him a job as a janitor. He thought he’d take it.”
“You know anybody who might have had a grudge against Mr. Rudmann?” asked the woman.
Vince squeezed the back of his neck. “I’m sure he had plenty of enemies.”
“But no one person in particular comes to mind.”
“Sorry.”
Removing a piece of paper from the pocket of her coat, the woman opened it and handed it to Vince. “You recognize that?”
Vince took the paper, aware that he was being scrutinized. Staring down at a weird-looking word, he asked, “What is that? It’s definitely not English.”
“It’s Greek.”
“I don’t speak Greek. Is it supposed to mean something to me?”
“You tell us.”
He looked from face to face, still struggling to figure out how to play this.
“Ever heard of the word akatharsia?”
He shook his head.
“It’s used in the New Testament. It means physical uncleanness.”
“Okay. And? What’s it got to do with Rudmann’s murder?”
“We thought you could tell us.”
“Hell,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re after here, but I can’t help you.”
“You own any guns?” asked the woman.
“I keep one at the club locked in a safe. It’s a Walther P99. I have a license.”
“That’s it?” asked the female cop. “Just the one gun.”
He nodded.
“You know if Mr. Rudmann owned any guns?”
“I have no idea.”
“Mr. Washington?”
“You’d have to ask him.” Hearing the stairs creak, Vince was sure that his wife must be listening. He hoped like hell that she’d stay where she was and not try to insert herself into the conversation.
“If you think of anything that might help us find Mr. Rudmann’s murderer,” said the woman, “give us a call.” As she stood, she handed him a card.
Vince walked them back into the front hall. “I have to say, I’m not entirely surprised his life ended violently.”
“Still,” said the male cop, looking at him with frank, probing eyes, “he didn’t deserve what happened.”
The direct nature of the gesture unnerved Vince.
“Have a good evening,” said the woman.
After closing the door and locking it, Vince shoved his trembling hands into the pockets of his slacks and looked up, watching his wife come down the stairs.
“That man, Royal, is dead?” she asked.
Vince returned to the living room to turn off all but one of the lamps.
“I never did understand why you two were friends.”
“We weren’t.”
“I thought you said he was in jail for beating up on his girlfriend and his girlfriend’s daughter?”
She didn’t know the half of it. Rudmann had raped the daughter, beaten the mother with a garden hoe, then tied them both up and locked them in a bathroom. He came back the next day with a picnic basket full of food, untied them, and drove them to a park so they could have some “family time”
together. Thankfully, the daughter was able to sneak away and call the police.
“What’s that?” asked Shelly, pointing to the piece of paper the police had brought with them.
Before he could stop her, she picked it up off the coffee table. “Looks Greek. Did the police bring it?”
Grabbing the page out of her hand, he stuffed it in his pocket and then went to the front closet to get his coat.
“Vince? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Not one damn thing.” He dug in his pocket for his car keys and billfold. “For once in your life, Shelly, just leave it alone.”
9
Bundled in her heavy wool peacoat, Jane trudged the block and a half to Cordelia’s loft, marveling at how busy the streets were these days in the old warehouse district. Gentrification had taken hold in a big way. Cordelia had moved into Linden Lofts, an old livery and rug warehouse, early in the process, when the neighborhood had been rougher and far less trendy.
Jane was too keyed up by Nolan’s sudden medical problems to simply go home or go back to work. It was early. Not quite nine. She’d called her neighbor Evelyn from the hospital and asked if she would mind going over to her house to let Mouse out. Not only did Evelyn say she’d do it, but she offered to bring Mouse over to her place and play with him while she watched the latest episode of her current favorite TV show, Hawaii Five-O. She said she’d give him a treat and a good brush and then bring him home before she turned in. Jane was glad she had a neighbor who loved Mouse almost as much as she did.
Standing at the corner, waiting for the light to turn green, she was surprised to see Melanie, Cordelia’s girlfriend, emerge from her condo across the street from Linden Lofts. Melanie and Cordelia had moved in together for a time, but both came to the conclusion that their often stormy relationship was better served by living apart—if only across the street. Jane waved, trying to get Melanie’s attention, but she was in the process of hailing a cab. She was all dressed up—for Melanie. Tan wool coat over jeans and high, slouchy suede boots. A Yellow Cab maneuvered to the curb, and Melanie hopped in. Jane watched the red taillights disappear up the street, still wondering what she and Cordelia had been fighting about on Sunday night.
Entering the Linden building, Jane was hit by the smell of roasted garlic, fresh rosemary, and lemon that drifted tantalizingly toward her from the restaurant on the first floor. As she made her way to the old freight elevator in the back, her stomach began to growl. Earlier in the day, trapped in that culinary wasteland otherwise known as the modern American hospital, she’d bought herself a roast beef sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was all she’d had to eat all day, so the idea of a decent meal definitely appealed. She’d been hoping she could interest Cordelia in some kind of takeout, perhaps from Brasa Rotisserie. Her stomach growled even more loudly when she thought of their pulled chicken smothered in cream and pepper gravy, or the slow-roasted pulled pork seasoned with fresh garlic and lime. It was usually easy to talk Cordelia into a late dinner after she returned from the theater. The fact that they both loved food, almost as much as they cared for each other, was one of life’s lucky constants.
During the last year, the building’s ancient elevator had been fitted with a new security system. No longer did Jane have to call up to Cordelia’s loft to be buzzed in. Cordelia had issued her a series of numbers that allowed her access to the upper regions of Linden Lofts. After pulling the heavy doors shut, she tapped in the security code. The elevator rumbled slowly to life, finally disgorging her on the fifth floor.
Standing before Cordelia’s door, Jane knocked softly, not wanting to wake Hattie. Instead of Cordelia, Bolger Aspenwall III, Hattie’s new nannie, appeared. He looked exhausted, his curly brown hair wreathed in a cardboard crown, a frilly white apron tied around his chest, red lipstick smeared on his lips, and brown greasepaint whiskers adorning his cheeks. Black tights and bright green elf shoes completed the ensemble.
“Epic outfit,” said Jane.
“It’s the true me, don’t you think?”
“Especially the shoes. Is the little one asleep?”
He offered her a wan look. “From your lips to God’s ears. She’s in bed. Her eyes are shut. All good signs.”
“Hard evening?”
“You could say that. Come in.” He held the door for her. “Can I interest you in a slightly used peanut butter sandwich?”
“Think I’ll pass.”
“Wise choice.”
Bolger was finishing up his BFA in acting at the University of Minnesota. Next year, he would start on his master’s in directing. He’d been dithering about moving to California to go to film school in Los Angeles but had changed his mind when he found someone in town with whom he wanted to study, all of which worked out wonderfully well for Cordelia.
Bolger was a natural with kids, adored Hattie, and was generally awed by Cordelia’s status in the theater community. His trust fund wouldn’t kick in until he turned thirty. Until then, he needed a steady paycheck and a place to live. Because his hours were flexible, he made a perfect nanny. He was gay, from a wealthy family who insisted that he work hard to make his own way in life. At the same time, his parents agreed to finance any education he might deem necessary for his future success, with the one proviso that he live frugally, pay for his own living expenses, and not ask for more than his standard allowance, which was substantial by ordinary standards but not enough to cover all his needs. He also liked challenges; thus his desire to take on Hattie Thorn Lester, the daughter of two icons—Roland Lester, the famous Golden Age Hollywood film director, and Octavia Thorn, the stage and international movie star, who also happened to be Cordelia’s dirtbag sister.
“Is Cordelia back from the theater?”
“I expect her any minute.”
“Wicked cool apron.”
“Think of me as Mother Hubbard with closeted elf tendencies. Help yourself to a drink. I’m going to change into something less comfortable.” He winked.
Eyeing the general disarray in the living room, Jane was drifting toward the floor-to-ceiling, small-pained windows that covered one entire wall when Cordelia burst in.
“Someone chasing you?” asked Jane.
Shivering, Cordelia replied, “My plan is to get into a hot bath and never get out.” Doing a double take, she added. “What are you doing here?”
“I just left the hospital.”
“How’s our uncle?”
Jane gave her the quick down and dirty.
“Not good news.”
“No.”
“Want a drink? Something to eat?”
“You know,” said Jane, having come up with a great idea in the last few seconds, “what I’d really like is to take a stroll over to GaudyLights. It’s only a short walk.”
“How did I know you were going to ask me that?” She tugged her coat more snuggly around her body. “I knew you’d drag me there one of these nights. It’s four blocks, Janey. Four long blocks. If we walk, we’ll freeze to death.”
“What’s four blocks?” asked Bolger, coming out from the back of the loft wearing a Burberry check bathrobe and gray silk lounge pants.
“GaudyLights,” said Cordelia, giving him a pained look.
“Seriously? Had no idea you two were so hardcore.”
“It’s part of Jane’s newest sleuthing case,” said Cordelia.
“Don’t call it a sleuthing case,” said Jane. “Makes me sound like Miss Marple.”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Bolger.
“My man,” said Cordelia. They touched fists.
“You should get Melissa to go with you,” said Bolger, disappearing into the kitchen. He reappeared a moment later nibbling on a ratty-looking half-eaten sandwich.
“Can’t,” said Cordelia.
“Because of that fight you had the other night?” asked Jane.
“If you must know—” She hesitated, then blurted, “Our relationship is kaput.”
Both Jane and Bolger started tal
king at the same moment.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Jane. “I’m your best friend.”
“I wondered why she was never here anymore,” said Bolger.
“Are you okay?” asked Jane.
“You can count on Brother Bolger to help you through this terrible time.”
Cordelia’s arms shot up, demanding silence. “Look,” she said, eyeing them sharply, “I was the one who called it off. I still love Mel. We just couldn’t agree on some very important issues.”
“What issues?” asked Bolger.
“You two are way the hell too nosy.” Her eyes scanning the room, she dropped her voice. “If you must know, I made a momentous decision a few weeks ago. Melanie tried to argue me out of it. I mean, all I could say was … ‘Excuse me? Have we met? How could you understand me so poorly?’ And then, well, things got ugly.”
“Decision?” asked Bolger, pointing the sandwich at her.
“Full disclosure will come in time. But not tonight, so don’t push Mother Nature.”
Bolger hooted. “Mother Nature. That’s good.”
“You think of me as anything less than an elemental life force?”
“No. Of course not. Never.”
“So,” said Jane. “If you’re okay—”
“I’m fine. Never better.”
“Will you come to GaudyLights with me?”
“Only if you find someone to carry me on a litter.”
“Umm—”
“Oh, all right,” sighed Cordelia. “If I must go and look at scantily clad women, I must.”
“When you put it that way,” said Jane.
“Have either of you ever been to a strip club?” asked Bolger, sauntering into the living room and making himself comfortable on the couch across from the TV.
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “What do you think?”
Jane turned to her. “Have you?”
“I’m not a Puritan.”
“How come you never said anything to me about it?”
“Janey, just think about it. Would you have come along if we’d invited you?”
“We?”
“I have a bunch of friends who occasionally like to take in a show.”
