by Ellen Hart
“Anything.”
“You’ve got the keys to my house, right?”
“In my pocket.”
“This is small potatoes, but there’s an ivy plant by the window in the kitchen that I’ve somehow managed to keep alive. It was one of my wife’s pride-and-joys. I’d hate to think it will kick the bucket because I can’t be there to water it.”
“Done,” said Jane.
“While you’re at it, better cancel my mail. There’s probably a pile inside the front door.”
“I’ll stop by your house after I leave. Anything else?”
Closing his eyes, he said, “Yeah. Tackle anybody who comes in here and wants to take my temperature or my blood pressure. They’re sadists. Every last one of them.”
* * *
Jane leaned over and scooped the mail up off the rug in Nolan’s front hall. After dumping it on the dining room table, she turned on a couple of lights, adjusting the shades so they were only partway open. Checking the thermostat on the way to the kitchen, she turned the heat in the house down to sixty.
When she’d watered the solitary ivy perched on a shelf next to the window overlooking the backyard, she washed the dishes in the sink, letting them dry in the dish rack while she took out the garbage. She spent a few minutes with a shovel, cleaning the sidewalks and tossing some salt over patches of ice.
Back inside, she drifted around the quiet house, thinking of the times she’d spent here with Nolan, eating dinner or working in his basement office, the friendship they’d forged through good and bad. Spread out on the coffee table in the living room was an old family album, one Jane had never seen before. She knew so little about Nolan’s early years. His wife, May, had died before Jane and Nolan had met. He’d shown her a few pictures of May, but as Jane lowered herself down on the couch, she saw snapshots of a young Nolan and his wife, long-ago images that both fascinated and charmed her. She wanted nothing more than to sit and go through the album, page by page, absorbing as much as she could about his past, and yet on the way over she’d begun to think that since she wasn’t spending the evening at the hospital, she should probably head over to the Xanadu Club. It had been a couple of weeks since she’d put in an appearance.
On a whim, Jane closed the album and carried it into the dining room, where she’d hung her peacoat on a chair. She poked through the mail, finding a thick manila envelope at the bottom of the stack. The city hall return address caught her eye. Inside she found DeAndre’s wallet, ring, watch, keys, and belt and a small red address book. A form letter stated that the deceased’s effects had been processed and were being returned. Leaving everything on the table except the wallet and the address book, which she stuffed into her coat pocket, she took one more look around to make sure everything was in order. Feeling satisfied, she returned to her CR-V, where she took out her cell and punched in the number for the assistant manager at the Xanadu.
“Butch,” said a distracted voice.
Butch who? she thought. “This is Jane Lawless.”
“Oh, hi.”
“Where’s Rich?” Rich was the evening shift manager.
“He’s … unavailable.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s … you know. Busy.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the new cashier.”
In the background she could hear a rock band playing, people laughing. Barry’s company had done a study that showed that the Uptown crowd was more interested in rock and salsa than early jazz. Jane couldn’t exactly argue since business was up.
“How’s everything going?”
“Good.” He didn’t sound entirely sure.
“What is it?”
“Well, actually, the kitchen service has been a bit bumpy. One of the deep fryers quit on us, and the sink in the prep kitchen is all backed up. It’s a mess.”
“Call Hanson’s Appliance for the fryer and Conrad’s Plumbing for the prep sink.”
“We’re not using them anymore. Barry gave us the number of a guy he knows.”
“A guy?”
“Yeah. A friend of his.”
“Is he there?”
“Not yet.”
“When did the fryer go out?”
“A couple hours ago.”
“Listen, Butch. Do I have your attention?”
“Yeah.”
“If this guy isn’t there in five minutes—five minutes—call Hanson’s. You got that?”
“Sure, but Barry—”
“I don’t care what Barry said. And call Conrad’s Plumbing before the backup spreads.”
“Okay, boss. It’s your call.”
Damn right it was, thought Jane. “How many tables have we turned over?”
“We’ve had a waiting list since we opened for dinner. Don’t see it disappearing anytime soon.”
At least that was good news.
“Everything’s under control. No worries. Rich’s got it covered.”
What Jane really wanted was to spend the rest of the night working on the Moore homicide. Restaurant owners didn’t get nights off, she reminded herself, not if they wanted their businesses to thrive. Then again, that’s why she’d brought in a partner. Either she trusted him or she didn’t. If she didn’t, why the hell was she in business with him?
“Ms. Lawless, you still there?”
She felt incredibly conflicted. “I may stop by later.”
“Really? Okay. Whatever. I got a line of people in front of me here—”
“You go.” She hung up, struggling to put her concerns on the back burner as she headed home.
17
After feeding Mouse his dinner of kibble and meat scraps, Jane made herself a sandwich and carried it back to her study along with Avi’s manuscript. She wanted to dig in right away but felt she needed to do some work first. She ate at her desk while going through DeAndre’s wallet, finding the usual: driver’s license, cash, credit cards, a few photos, and a key card to a hotel room where he’d probably been staying, though there was no identifying information on either side, just a generic picture of Minnehaha Falls.
She studied the driver’s license photo, one that showed a clean-shaven young man with a broad, open face, an infectious smile, and a gold link chain around his neck. His skin was lighter than Nolan’s, his hair close cropped.
Turning to the address book, she found Nolan’s phone number, along with phone numbers for pizza takeout and Chinese food. Several women’s names had stars next to them. A few of the entries were simply first names. Jane figured that these were DeAndre’s brothers or friends. Selecting one at random, a guy named Derrick, she tapped in the number. A couple of rings later, she was put through to voice mail. She left her name and cell number, gave a brief explanation for the call, and hung up. After striking out three more times, she flipped to the back of the book and tried another name. This time, she got lucky.
“Hello?” said a male voice.
“Is this Omar?”
“Who wants to know?”
She pulled her notepad closer and explained who she was and why she was calling. “You’re a friend of DeAndre’s?”
“Lady, we been best buds since seventh grade. I can’t believe what happened to him. You say you’re a friend of D’s uncle Alf?”
“That’s right.”
“He and D were tight.”
“It was a huge blow.”
“Yeah. D’s mom called me yesterday, told me what happened. I mean, shit like this shouldn’t happen to a guy like D. His family’s planning a memorial service for him next weekend. I’m scheduled to work. Gotta get that day off.”
“Would you mind answering a couple of questions?”
“Like what?”
“Do you know why he was in Minneapolis?”
“Yeah.”
He seemed to need prodding. “Why?”
“He was looking for someone.”
“Do you know who?”
“Yeah.”
At this rat
e, the conversation could take forever. “His sister?”
Silence. “How’d you know that?”
“I’m told he doesn’t have a sister.”
“That’s what most people think.”
“But he does.”
“Her name’s Sabrina. Eight or nine years older than him. From his bio family, not his adopted one.”
“How come his adoptive family doesn’t know about her?”
“D never told them. Sabrina was already out of the house when he was put in foster care. He said she was wild. In and out of juvie. He was, like, scared, you know? He didn’t want his new family to think he was anything like her. I told him he was crazy, but he kept thinking that there was a chance that they might send him back to foster care if they found out.”
“Did DeAndre and his sister keep in touch?”
“Saw each other from time to time—until she took off. All of a sudden. D was in a lather about it, too.”
“Why’d she leave?”
“No idea. But D knew. He seemed really worried, like something bad had gone down. I’m not sure how he tracked her to Minneapolis, but right after he did, he took off.”
“Can you describe what she looks like?”
“Never met the woman.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
“Just that she used to work in a strip club.”
“As a stripper?”
“Duh, yeah.”
If the sister was eight or nine years older than DeAndre, it meant she was at least thirty-seven years old. Was that too old to dance at a strip club? “Do you know where DeAndre was staying in Minneapolis?”
“Sorry. He didn’t think he’d be gone more than a day or two. Said he’d call”—Omar’s voice thickened—“when he got back.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Jane, underlining the word “Gaudy” on her notepad, “and I appreciate the information. If you think of anything else that might be helpful, would you call me?” She gave him her number, waiting while he wrote it down.
“I heard he was knifed by some d-bag dishwasher. I can’t help but wonder if he ever connected with Sabrina. If she had something to do with it.”
“That’s what I’m working on,” said Jane.
“Good luck,” said Omar. “If you figure it out, will you call me?”
“I will.” Hearing her doorbell, Jane offered a quick good-bye.
Dashing through the house to the front door, she ordered Mouse to sit. He skidded to a stop, perched on his still-wagging tail.
Cordelia stood outside on the steps holding a white sack and a magnum of Piper-Heidsieck. “Time to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?” asked Jane.
“I’ve come to tell you my secret—if I don’t freeze to death first.”
Jane stood back. Once Cordelia had greeted Mouse properly, she tapped him on the nose and said, “No champagne for you, mister—but I didn’t forget you.” She dug into the pocket of her buffalo plaid hunting jacket and removed a peanut butter dog treat, Mouse’s favorite. She made him sit down before she flipped it to him. Turning to Jane, she said, “Get two champagne flutes and a couple of plates. I suggest we reconvene in the living room.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
When they were finally ensconced on the couch, Cordelia divvied up the chocolate mascarpone cakes from D’Amico’s Deli and poured the champagne.
“What do we drink to?” asked Jane.
“To my new life.” She stood, jumped up on the footstool, raised her glass, and struck a Wagnerian pose.
“What new life?”
“Drink first. Explanation to follow.”
Jane rose, and they clicked classes.
“Nice,” said Jane after taking a sip.
“Only the best. Now build us a fire.” She jumped down.
“Are you attempting to prolong the suspense?”
“I’m savoring the moment.”
Jane worked quickly to get the fire going, all the while stealing glances at Cordelia, who seemed to be off in another world. Once the logs had caught, she picked up her glass and sat down on the rocker next to the hearth. “So?”
Cordelia drained her glass, then smacked her lips. “You knew my contract was up at the theater, right? That I was in negotiations.”
“Yes, but you said it was nothing to worry about. You were sure they were going to offer you four more years.”
“I met with the board this afternoon.”
“And?”
Flashing her eyes, she said, “I tendered my resignation.”
“Excuse me?”
“My term as artistic director at the AGRT will end in April. Ten years. It was a great run, but it’s time for a change.”
Jane was stunned. Cordelia had said nothing to her about any of this. “I know you’ve had your issues with the board.”
“I am so done with that theater,” she said, pouring them each another glass of bubbly. “I mean, every year the board gets more conservative. I like musical comedy as much as the next person, I like Tennessee Williams, Oscar Wilde, and Thornton Wilder, but come on. How many times do we have to sit through Cat on a Hot Tin Roof before we all puke in unison? Blithe Spirit. Our Town. Lady Windermere’s Fan. Please! I made a suggestion last fall. I thought it might prove interesting to revive The Cradle Will Rock, just to mix things up a little. I mean, such a pedigree. Written by Marc Blitzstein. Originally produced as part of the Federal Theater Project during the Depression, directed by Orson Welles, produced by John Houseman. When the board got wind of it, they nearly choked to death on their communal ire.”
“It’s a controversial musical.”
“What’s wrong with controversy?”
“Might hurt ticket sales?”
“Or it might encourage them. I’m sick to death of working with such timid minds.”
“Do you have another job lined up?”
Cordelia eyebrows danced. “Don’t need one.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m starting my own theater. I’ve been looking around for just the right property, and I think I found it. Did you ever go to the Phoenix Rising Playhouse? It’s on Twelfth and Harvard Place, close to Loring Park. It was rehabbed in the early seventies by a couple of friends of mine. Very trendy at the time. They painted the interior a bunch of garish colors and duct-taped the ripped seats. Working-class chic. It was finally shut it down in 1986. It sat empty for a while, and then another group took it over—named it the Piccolo. They painted the interior black and retaped the seats. Pretty much gave away the tickets. A bunch of different theater groups used it. They closed up shop in ’08.”
“It’s a really old theater, right?”
“It’s a turn-of-the-century jewel. First floor is all shops—or it will be when we clean it up. Offices on the second. The top floor is a hundred-and-fifty-or-so-seat theater. The original name was the Criterion Opera House. Sure, it needs work—maybe a ton of work to bring it up to code—but I’ve got that handled. My sister, Octavia, is coming in as part owner. She’s got deep pockets and is in love with the idea.”
“You can’t work with your sister. You’ll kill each other.”
“She’ll be a silent partner.”
“Octavia? Silent?”
“I’m planning to hire a general manager and someone to handle promotion. I’ll buy the place outright and begin the renovations this spring. With a little luck, our first play should be up and running by fall.”
“A repertory theater?”
“No. Not this time around. Oh, Janey, I’m so excited I feel like a kid with a shiny new toy.”
Jane took a bite of the chocolate cake, feeling more cautious than positive. “This is a big step.”
“It’s the right one.”
“You won’t make as much money.”
“I’m in a good place financially. Besides, money has never been my raison d’être.”
“Your public profile won’t be as big.”
&n
bsp; “Says who? You think this is going to be just any old theater? With my connections, we’ll have major names coming to star in every production. I’m going to shake the theater world up around here, Janey. Just you wait and see.” She took a bite of cake, closed her eyes, and chewed slowly. “Ambrosia.”
“About Mel.”
Keeping her eyes closed, Cordelia sighed and leaned back against the cushions. “She wasn’t on board with the decision. We’ve grown apart, Janey. Hattie asked me the other day if Mel still lived across the street. That should tell you something. The final nail in the coffin was when I told her I was done at the AGRT. I never realized it before, but Mel really grooved on my gliteratti status. She couldn’t believe I’d throw it all away on some pipe dream. It seems like we were arguing about it all the time. You know what it’s like when we argue.”
“Epic.”
“Exactly. I couldn’t take Armageddon every single day.”
While Jane rose from the rocker to stoke the fire, Cordelia took the opportunity to refill the champagne flutes again. “Let’s not talk about my love life. It stings, you know?”
“Oh, I know. This should make you feel better. Abilene and I are over.”
“No.”
“She took off for Aspen with her producer last Sunday. She’s Abilene’s new squeeze.”
“That floozy.”
“I thought you liked her.”
“I thought she had potential. You just never know, do you? I’m sorry you’re hurting, Janey. For years it’s seemed like either you were miserable and I was happy, or I was miserable and you were happy. We’re finally in sync.”
Jane thought it prudent not to mention Avi.
For the next hour, Cordelia talked nonstop about her plans for the new theater. Against her better judgment, Jane found herself getting caught up in her friend’s excitement. Her main concern had to do with the onetime toast of the Great White Way, Cordelia’s wayward actor sister. If anyone was capable of tossing a stick into the wheel, she was. Cordelia had swept the issue of her sister off the table rather too quickly, in Jane’s opinion. She might see Octavia as merely a financial backer, but Jane doubted Octavia saw her role that way. Octavia and her outsized ego would undoubtedly be equal parts support and threat.
“More champagne?” asked Cordelia, holding up the bottle.
