by Sofie Kelly
He left the end of the sentence hanging.
“Do you know where he might have gone?” I asked.
“You mean he’s not out there anymore?”
I shook my head. When I’d driven out to Long Lake before work, I’d checked out every dirt road in the area where Roma had said the squatter’s truck had been parked. There had been no sign of him.
Oren sighed. “He could be anywhere. The last time Ira disappeared he turned up in Clearwater Beach in Florida but for weeks no one knew where he was. I go out to check on him every couple of weeks and he was talking about Clearwater the last time I saw him. That’s all I know.”
I hadn’t touched my coffee and now took one long drink and then set the cup back on the counter. “I better get going,” I said. “Thank you for talking to me.”
Oren got to his feet. “If I hear anything about Ira, I promise I’ll call you.”
“Thank you,” I said. I walked back to the truck thinking that I was no closer to answers in Dani’s death and I really had no idea what to do next.
Marcus was already at our favorite table in the front window when I got to Eric’s Place. We gave Nic our order—spaghetti and meatballs—and after he’d headed back to the kitchen Marcus smiled across the table at me. “How was your day?” he asked.
“All right,” I said. “Owen climbed in the laundry basket and got cat hair all over the towels again. At least this time it wasn’t the clean ones. And we started decorating for Spookarama. I think Eddie is going to be Frankenstein.”
He laughed. “I’m looking forward to seeing that.”
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit there and make small talk while we both pretended everything was fine when it wasn’t. “Do you trust me?” I said.
His blue eyes widened. “Where did that come from?”
If I’d had even the tiniest bit of doubt that Hope was right that Marcus was keeping something from us it disappeared like a balloon popping.
“That question only has two answers,” I said, struggling to keep the maelstrom of emotions I was feeling from sneaking into my voice. “Yes or no.”
“Why would you think I don’t trust you?”
I didn’t say anything. I just continued to look at him. Finally, he sighed softly. “Of course I trust you, Kathleen,” he said in a low voice.
My heart was pounding so hard it felt like there was a steel band playing in my chest. “Then tell me what it is you’ve been holding back. I know it has to do with Dani.”
To his credit he didn’t pretend he didn’t know what I was talking about. He reached across the table for my hand. “I can’t. Not because I don’t trust you, because I do. I trust you with my life. But I gave my word and it’s not my secret to tell.”
“Whatever this secret is could get you arrested,” I said, this time not even trying to keep the emotion from my voice.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with Dani’s death. And I don’t know if it will make any difference to you, but this . . . information goes way back to before you and I got together. If it was now, I would say no to anything I had to keep from you.” He had that look on his face that told me it wasn’t going to be easy to change his mind.
“How do you know it doesn’t have anything to do with Dani’s death?”
The muscles along his jaw tightened. “I gave my word, Kathleen,” he said again. “If I don’t honor my commitments or keep my promises, what kind of a man am I?”
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. The words of Shakespeare’s sonnet came unbidden into my mind. In this case nothing about Marcus had changed, I realized. He’d always been a man of principles, a man of his word. He hadn’t changed and how I felt about him wasn’t changing, either.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay.”
“Really?” he asked.
“I think this is a bad idea, but for now I’m not going to push.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with Dani getting killed. I swear,” Marcus said, giving my hand a squeeze before letting it go.
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the door to the café open. I didn’t recognize the man who walked in but I knew he was a police officer. It was clear in the way he stood, in the way he surveyed the room before walking over to us.
“Marcus,” I said softly.
He turned and his face hardened.
The man stopped at our table. “Hello, Marcus,” he said.
Marcus gave him a tight smile. “Bryan,” he said with a nod.
This had to be the detective from Red Wing, Bryan Foster. He was about average height, a couple of inches shorter than Marcus. He had smooth brown skin and dark hair clipped close to his head.
“We need to talk,” the detective said. “I need you to come to the station.”
Marcus shifted in his seat, propping one arm on the back of the chair. “Sure,” he said. “We just ordered. I can be there in”—he looked down at his watch—“about an hour.”
The other detective shook his head. “I’m afraid it can’t wait that long.”
“Like I said, I can be there in about an hour.” Marcus raised his voice slightly. I’d seen the challenge in his blue eyes before.
“I don’t want to make this embarrassing for either one of us,” Detective Foster said, keeping his voice low. “Don’t put me in that position.”
Marcus pushed back his chair and stood up. I could feel the anger coming off him.
At the other end of the room Eric came around the counter.
“C’mon, man,” Foster said softly. “Just come with me.” His eyes flicked in my direction for a moment. Behind us the door to the café opened again and I caught a glimpse of a white-haired man.
“I’m sorry about dinner, Kathleen,” Marcus said. His eyes never left the other man’s face.
“It’s all right,” I said, my voice suddenly hoarse. “Go.”
“My client isn’t going anywhere,” a voice said. It belonged to the white-haired man who had just walked in. The color drained from Marcus’s face. “Don’t say a word,” the man told him.
“And who might you be?” Detective Foster asked.
The smile he got was a mix of arrogance and condescension. “Elliot Gordon, attorney at law. What do you want with my son?”
8
“Kathleen, meet my father,” Marcus said.
“Is my son under arrest?” Elliot Gordon asked the detective as though Marcus hadn’t spoken. He either didn’t see or ignored the hand I held out.
“I just need to ask him a few questions,” Foster said. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, feet apart, and though he was a bit shorter in stature than Marcus and his father, his solid frame seemed to command more of the space.
“I’m fine,” Marcus said. His face gave nothing away but one of his hands was clenched tightly into a fist. “This is just routine.”
Elliot Gordon continued to keep his eyes fixed on the Red Wing detective, who met his gaze with what seemed to me to be just a touch of amusement. This staring thing seemed to be a Gordon family trait. “Doesn’t matter. You still need a lawyer.”
“Then I’ll get a lawyer,” Marcus said. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Brady, it’s Marcus,” he said. “Can you meet me at the police station?” He listened for a moment. “Now.” Then, “Thanks,” and ended the call. He looked at Detective Foster and shrugged. “Let’s go.”
The detective turned to me. “I’m sorry for disrupting your dinner,” he said. He inclined his head in Elliot Gordon’s direction. “Mr. Gordon.”
Marcus stretched out his hand and caught mine. “It’s okay, Kathleen,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
They started for the door. “Go h
ome,” I heard Marcus say softly to his father, the words tight and clipped as he moved past the older man.
If the words hurt, and I didn’t see how they couldn’t have, nothing in Elliot Gordon’s expression gave it away. Detective Foster and Marcus headed for the door and as soon as they stepped outside Elliot Gordon followed. I was left standing by our table alone.
Eric walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “You all right, Kathleen?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” I said, nodding slowly. I turned my head to look at him. He looked skeptical. “No, I am. Really. And I’m sorry all of this happened here.” I gestured with one hand.
“It’s none of my business, but Marcus isn’t under arrest, is he?” Eric glanced back at the counter. “I know the woman who was killed at Long Lake was a friend of his.”
Eric had had a couple of run-ins with the police in his younger days, back before he stopped drinking. He would have realized that Bryan Foster was a police officer
“No,” I said, not feeling one hundred percent certain I was right. “Just questions.”
“Try not to worry about it,” he said. “No one who knows Marcus is going to believe he killed anyone.”
“Thanks,” I said. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. I looked over at our table.
“Want me to get your food and box it up for you?” Eric asked.
My appetite had disappeared. “No thanks. Just give me the bill.”
He gave me a small smile and shook his head. “It’s on me.”
“No, Eric, you can’t,” I said.
The smile got a little bigger. “Yeah, I can,” he said cocking one eyebrow at me. “I own the place.”
I made myself smile back at him. “Thank you.”
He glanced over at the counter again and held up one finger to Nic, who nodded. Then he turned back to me. “If you need anything you call, got it?”
“I got it,” I said. I grabbed my jacket and purse and headed out to the truck.
I didn’t know what to do next. I tried Hope but all I got was her voice mail. Clearly her “friend” hadn’t told her what he planned to do, otherwise Hope would have warned Marcus.
And what was Marcus’s father doing in town? I knew Marcus would never have called him. The two of them had a strained relationship. Marcus didn’t have a single photo of his father in his house, which is why I hadn’t realized who Elliot Gordon was when he walked into the café.
More questions without any answers.
* * *
There was no sign of Owen or Hercules when I got home. “Hello,” I called. After a minute I heard an answering meow. Owen. I put a mug of milk in the microwave and a piece of bread in the toaster. I knew the sound of the toaster would bring him.
“Mrr?” he said, crossing the floor to me. I stretched one arm behind my head. “Long story,” I said. I bent down and picked him up.
He leaned in close to my face and peered at me. The microwave beeped then. “Give me a second,” I said, scratching the top of his head and then setting him down on one of the kitchen chairs. Once I had a cup of hot chocolate and some toast with lots of peanut butter I scooped up Owen, sat down and settled him on my lap.
He looked pointedly at my plate. “Fine,” I said, breaking off a tiny bite for him, because I really was trying to heed Roma’s admonition about not feeding either cat people food.
I told Owen what had happened at Eric’s Place while we ate. Then I filled him in on my visit with Oren. “I have no idea what to do next.”
There was a knock at the back door. Owen leaned sideways, looking toward the porch, then looked pointedly at me. “Yes, I suppose I could go answer the door,” I said.
I set him on the chair again and headed for the porch. Hope was standing on my back steps. “I got your message,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Detective Foster came into Eric’s and took Marcus down to the station for questioning.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and swore softly. “I’m sorry, Kathleen,” she said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. I gestured at the kitchen door. “Come in.”
“I can’t,” she said. “Remember I told you Marcus said he went for a walk during that hour he can’t account for?”
I nodded.
“He said he was down on the waterfront. Thorsten says a couple of those old warehouses have security cameras. I’m hoping to find some footage that’ll show Marcus was where he says he was.”
I told her what Oren had told me about his cousin. “Did Oren say where the guy went the last time he took off to Florida?” Hope asked.
“Clearwater Beach.”
“I’ll see if I can get the local police to keep an eye out for his van.”
“You’re supposed to be off the case.”
She shrugged. “I’m supposed to make my bed every morning and not drink so much coffee and neither one of those things is going to happen, either.” There was something defiant about the way she stood there, hands jammed in her pockets, shoulders squared.
“Just don’t put your own career in jeopardy, please,” I said.
“Don’t worry about me, Kathleen,” she said.
But I was worried about her.
Hope jingled her car keys in her pocket. “So I’m guessing you didn’t find out what Marcus has been holding back, then?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t.”
“I can’t believe Foz did this,” she said. “You’re certain he said it was just questioning? He didn’t arrest Marcus?”
“I’m positive. And Marcus has a lawyer with him. Brady Chapman.”
“Brady?” she shot back. “Why not his own father?”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You knew Elliot Gordon was in town?”
She nodded. “I knew he was coming.”
I think my mouth fell open just a little in surprise. “Marcus didn’t know. How did you know?”
She looked at me like I was dense as a block of wood. “I called him.”
I bit the end of my tongue so I wouldn’t say anything that later I’d wish I had kept to myself.
“You disapprove,” Hope said.
Everything I knew about Elliot Gordon came from Marcus. He’d been a mostly absent father, building his career as a criminal defense attorney while Marcus and his sister, Hannah, were growing up, and when he was present, he’d set impossibly high standards for his only son. “I think getting in touch with his father was Marcus’s call,” I said, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.
“He never would have done it, Kathleen. I had to. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
She didn’t see that she’d crossed a line. All of a sudden I wasn’t so sure this partnership was a good idea.
Hope must have had her phone on vibrate because she suddenly pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the screen. “I have to go,” she said. “If anything else happens, call me.” She didn’t wait for my answer.
I turned around to find Owen standing in the doorway. “You heard,” I said. I wasn’t even going to pretend that I was thinking out loud. There was no one around.
Owen narrowed his golden eyes.
“She shouldn’t have called his father,” I said. Owen followed me back into the kitchen. When I sat down he jumped onto my lap. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have agreed to try to work with her. And I shouldn’t have been doing it behind Marcus’s back.”
Owen wrinkled his nose at me. “Just because he didn’t ask me directly what I was doing doesn’t mean it was okay.”
He seemed to think about what I’d just said as though it was a new concept to him. Or he was waiting for me to stop talking and make another piece of toast. I decided making the toast was a better use of time.
We’d finished eating and Owen was sitting at my feet,
methodically washing his face, when there was another knock at the back door. “Mrrr,” he said without missing a pass with his paw.
“I heard,” I said. I headed out to the porch with a general feeling of trepidation. I didn’t want to deal with Hope again tonight. But it wasn’t Hope standing on the steps. It was Elliot Gordon.
“Hello, Ms. Paulson,” he said. He was as tall as his son with the same broad shoulders. He had the same wavy hair as Marcus, shorter and combed back from his face.
“Hello, Mr. Gordon,” I said, wondering why he was at my door. At my feet Owen leaned his head against my leg.
“I’d like to talk to you,” he said. “May I come in?”
I hesitated; what little I knew about the man didn’t really make me inclined to like him. On the other hand, even Marcus said his dad was an excellent lawyer. I opened the door a little wider. “Come in, Mr. Gordon,” I said. I led the way into the kitchen.
Elliot Gordon looked around, making no attempt to hide his curiosity. “Everett Henderson used to own this house.”
“He still does.” I leaned against the counter and folded my arms across my chest. “Why are you here?” I asked. “I don’t think you came here to talk about real estate, but I could be wrong.”
“Merow,” Owen commented loudly to emphasize the point.
Hercules had come from wherever he’d been all this time. Flanked by him on one side and Owen on the other, I felt a little like Batgirl with Batman and Robin as my sidekicks—after all, Barbara Gordon had a degree in library science.
Marcus’s father laughed. “I like you,” he said. His hands were in the pockets of what looked to be a very expensive coat—gray wool and cashmere I was guessing. His feet were slightly apart and the look in his eyes—which were dark brown, not blue like Marcus’s—reminded me so much of Marcus it made my chest hurt. His expression grew serious. “My son is a suspect in a murder. I don’t intend to let him be arrested.”
“Neither do I,” I said.
“So you’re willing to help me.” He didn’t phrase the words in the form of a question.
