by Ellen Crosby
“Bully for him.” Ian sounded irritated. “And this relates how to Rebecca turning over information about Tommy Asher?”
“I don’t know. But she did say that the Asher Collection—which is all about the design and planning of Washington—was displayed in their New York offices and that her boss often brought historians in to talk to his employees about it.”
“Meaning she knew about Palladio and the difference between Ionic and Corinthian columns and what an architrave is?”
“Right.”
“And if, say, it’s a key ring flash drive that could be downloaded onto a computer, we’d be looking for something about two inches long and half an inch wide,” Ian said. “That narrows it down to just about any-freakin’-where in the city.”
“Maybe just the public monuments. Or gardens.” I rubbed my eyes. This was getting to be insane.
He shut the laptop and picked up his empty glass. “I need another drink.”
“If you’re going downstairs, how about walking me to my car?” I said. “We’re not going to get anywhere tonight with this, and my head’s about to split apart from thinking so much.”
“You’re not ditching me?”
“We have one more day. Why don’t we start again in the morning?”
“I say we stick with it until we figure it out.”
His words had grown thicker as the evening wore on, the accumulated consequence of a couple of beers and a tumbler of Scotch.
“Ian, I need to go.”
“Please?”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
I stood up and reached for my cane. He pulled me back down on the sofa and kissed me. “Stay.” His voice was low. “I want you.”
“No.” I struggled to push him away from me. “Don’t do this. I mean it.”
“It’s okay, baby.”
He tried again and this time I pushed harder.
“Stop it!”
He released me and I saw the two red blotches on his cheeks. “Sorry. I’m not really an oaf most of the time. I just got carried away. You’re beautiful, you know. I could fall for you in a heartbeat.”
I looked away. Tomorrow he wouldn’t remember this. “I think you should walk me to my car. Now, please.”
He had to unlock the kitchen door from the inside before he let me out into the cool evening. I shivered and he put his arm around me, rubbing my shoulders. At the back gate he unlocked the padlock. When we got to my car, he leaned down and kissed me again.
This time I let him do it.
“Why don’t you call me when you get home?” His words were lightly slurred. “I wanna know you got there safely.”
“I’ll be fine. Maybe you should get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.”
He stood there, watching me back out of the parking space and head down the alley. As I turned the corner, he raised his hand in a good-bye salute, an eerie specter, his silhouette outlined by moonlight and the red taillights of my car.
I pulled out onto North Carolina Avenue and thought about calling him to remind him to double-check the locks to his doors after what he’d said about being watched. An MPD cruiser passed me, heading east as a siren wailed in the distance. At least his neighborhood was patrolled. And he probably didn’t need me mothering him.
In spite of what I’d told him, I called his cell an hour later as I walked through my front door—as much to check on him as to let him know I was home. He didn’t pick up so I hung up and tried again. He’d probably passed out either in bed or on the sofa with the Laphroaig. After the fourth call I left a message.
In the morning, I found out just how much trouble I’d gotten myself into by doing that.
Chapter 13
Ian Philips still didn’t answer his phone Wednesday morning when I called after breakfast. Quinn showed up at the villa as I was in the kitchen dialing Ian’s number yet again and making coffee.
“I think I remember who you are.” He took the carafe from me and filled it with water. “Don’t you own this vineyard?”
I hit End Call and picked up a bottle of wine on the counter. “I believe that’s my name on that label. It appears I do.”
“Well, then, where the hell have you been? You’re disappearing on me all the time lately. I thought we were going to do more bench trials on the Viognier yesterday. What’d you do? Shut off your phone and play hooky?”
He poured the water into the coffeemaker as I resumed scooping French roast into the basket.
“I’m sorry. I had to run into D.C. It was sort of last minute—and weren’t you the one who wanted time and space? I gave it to you.”
He ignored that. Convenient.
“You went to Washington? Again? What for, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I met a friend of Rebecca’s.”
“They still haven’t found her?”
“No.” I punched the Brew button. “They haven’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. This morning he wore an old gray sweatshirt that stretched tight across his chest, faded jeans, and work boots. I did not want to search for any subtext in his concern or fool myself that we were anything but friends and coworkers. Especially since I knew he was contemplating pulling up stakes and moving on. What happened between us before was finished; God knows he’d gotten over me just fine.
How could men do that? Switch off their emotions so abruptly, ready for the next adventure. Like catching a bus. Another one would be along and it would get you there the same as the previous one. I just … couldn’t.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
Maybe it was time I started putting some distance between us as well. In the past I would have confided in him, but now I wasn’t so sure.
“I know you.” He raised an eyebrow. “I know when you’re keeping something from me.”
I turned and found two mugs in the cabinet. With my back to him, I took the carafe off the hot plate and poured coffee into one of the mugs.
“Talking about keeping things from someone, I heard you’re looking to buy land. Ali Jennings says she and Harlan have some acres they might like to sell. Here’s your coffee.”
I slid it across the counter and set the carafe back in its place, waiting for it to refill.
“Uh, thanks,” he said. “And, uh, thanks for passing that on. I’m, uh, sorry you had to find out from someone besides me.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “It’ll take me some time to find a new winemaker. Maybe I should start looking now. How soon do you think you’ll leave?”
He went pale. I poured coffee in my mug, adding sugar and milk, while I waited for his reply.
He cleared his throat. “It’s still up in the air. I’ve got some financial stuff to figure out. But I was hoping in about two months.”
I put my lips together because I did not trust my voice. He placed a hand on my shoulder as my phone rang. I moved out of reach of his sympathy and his touch. It was Kit, calling from work.
“Hey,” I said.
“Boy, you don’t sound too good. I guess you heard already, huh?”
“Heard what?” I turned my back on Quinn and blinked hard. “What are you talking about? Have they found Rebecca?”
“No, no … nothing like that. David Wildman just told me some news. You know who he is, don’t you? My colleague who’s working on that story about Asher Investments.”
“I remember. What is it?”
“Remember that guy you said tried to pick you up Saturday night at the Willard? Ian Philips?” She waited. “Lucie?”
“I’m here.”
“David was meeting one of his contacts at the MPD for breakfast this morning to talk about Rebecca when the detective got called out on a possible homicide on Capitol Hill just as they sat down in the restaurant. He let David ride along so they could keep talking. You’ll never guess who the homicide was. Ian Philips.”
For a long moment I stood there listening to the slig
ht hissing of the coffeemaker and the slow, hard slamming of my heart against my ribs.
I closed my eyes. “My God, not Ian, too.”
“What are you talking about, ‘too’? Don’t tell me you actually met up with him?”
“It’s complicated. What … happened?”
“David says it looked like he passed out in a backyard hot tub and drowned. The cops found an empty bottle of Scotch right there, so he could have been really plastered when it happened. I guess they won’t know whether it’s an accident or a homicide until the autopsy results.”
I still couldn’t believe it. “Did it look like anyone broke into his house?”
“The back gate was unlocked, so someone could have walked in. It led to an alley. But the house looked fine, nothing disturbed or out of place.” I could hear her shrug through the phone. “David said the cops think he had company, though. They found a couple of empty glasses on the living room coffee table.”
“He did have company,” I said. “Me.”
Quinn must have heard Kit’s shrieked expletive through the phone, because he planted himself in front of me and mouthed, “What?”
I shook my head at him and said to Kit, “I guess I’d better call Detective Horne and tell him myself. My prints are there, anyway. Plus I called a bunch of times and left Ian a message.”
“Damn right you should call him, Luce. What the hell were you doing at Ian’s place, anyway? Are you out of your mind?” Her voice was still shrill. “First Rebecca, now Ian Philips. Why’d you see him?”
“He called and asked me to meet him. One thing led to another. We had dinner at the Tune Inn, then ended up back at his place.”
“You mean, a date?” Kit sounded incredulous.
“No,” I said. “Nothing like that. Look, I can’t talk about it now.”
“Why not?”
“Uh …”
“Someone’s there?”
“Yes.”
“Call me after you talk to that detective. You’re probably going to have to go down to headquarters on Indiana Avenue and give a statement.”
“I know.”
“You’d better be careful, kiddo. Otherwise you’re going to end up in a hole so deep you may not be able to climb out.”
I set my phone on the counter after she disconnected, heaping sugar in my coffee.
“Having sugar with your coffee? You already did that,” Quinn said. “Who’s Ian?”
“A friend of Rebecca’s,” I said. “The police found him this morning. It looks like he drowned in a hot tub sometime last night.”
“You were with him last night?”
I nodded.
“What’s going on, Lucie?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think he drowned.”
I left Quinn in the kitchen and called Detective Ismail Horne from my office. As Kit predicted, he issued a personal invitation to come down to Indiana Avenue and explain my side of the story. If I chose not to do so, Horne promised he’d send someone to fetch me, with a matching pair of bracelets to accessorize my ride. And they probably wouldn’t roll out the red carpet when I arrived if we did this the hard way.
“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked, shaken.
“You’re not being charged with anything,” he said. “We just want to talk with you. That’s all. But if you do lawyer up, then we need to read you your rights and it starts getting complicated. Your choice.”
“Ian Philips was alive and well when I left him last night,” I said. “But he’d been drinking. I called him several times when I got home and he never answered, so I figured he’d gone to bed and I left a message on his machine.”
“I know,” Horne said. “I heard. That’s why it looks better that you called me than me calling on you. Come on in here. Later this morning would work just fine for me.”
On my way out, I walked by Quinn’s office. His door was ajar and he was talking on the phone, his deep voice carrying into the hallway.
“Sure, Ali … thanks … yeah, I’d love to see it. Give me a call when it’s convenient.”
My heart gave another unwelcome lurch. He hadn’t wasted any time calling Alison Jennings about their land. Was he really going to go through with this? I had just slipped past his door when he called my name.
“You leaving again?” He stood in his doorway, hands in his pockets as he leaned against the jamb.
I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes, but I could sense a new energy in him, anticipation about the possibilities that had opened up since he’d come into that inheritance—a chance to put his own stamp on a vineyard, his name on a wine label. I wanted to be glad for him. Really I did. But how could I not have noticed his restlessness before this?
“I’m going into D.C. Again. Sorry, but I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Can we put off the bench trials another day?”
“Sure. Your call. Want me to come with you? You’re talking to the police, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “And you’re going over to the Jenningses’ place to see their land.”
He reddened. “Not for a while. Look, I’m not going to jump ship tomorrow, okay? And if this works out, it’s not like I’m leaving Atoka. I’ll still be around. We’ll still see each other.” His smile was self-conscious; he knew he wasn’t conning me, but I played along.
I tried to smile, too. “I know.”
“You understand, don’t you? You know I’m not unhappy here. That’s not why I’m doing it.”
Sure, I understood. I just didn’t want him to leave. And it wasn’t about the wine, either. “You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
He flashed a cheeky grin like a kid who hooked a big fish with nothing but string and a worm. “If you want to know the truth, it surprised me, too. But financially things are looking up so I think I can pull this off sooner than later. With the recession, it’s a good time to buy land. Prices are down.”
“You’re talking about the money from your mother’s estate?”
“That and a few investments.”
“I’ll miss you,” I said.
“What are you going to miss? I told you I’ll still be by to give you grief, like I always do.”
“Something to look forward to.” I hooked a thumb in the direction of the door. “I’d better get going. They’re waiting for me.”
“You never said whether you want me to come.”
“Thanks, anyway, but I can handle this on my own.”
He seemed surprised by the rebuff, but all he said was, “Sure. I know you can.”
As I closed the door I thought I heard him say, “I’ll miss you, too, sweetheart. I’ll miss you, too.”
Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought he sounded wistful and even a little melancholy.
It took me almost as much time to find a parking place near D.C. police headquarters as it did to drive from Atoka to Washington. Finally I gave up on meters and found a garage a few blocks away. Once I got inside the building it took another twenty minutes to get past security to the third floor where the homicide division was located.
I’d obviously watched too many television cop shows because I was expecting to be interrogated in a large room with a grungy table, a couple of beat-up wooden chairs, a mirrored window—where someone would watch me from the other side—and a legal pad and pencil for me to write it all down. Instead Ismail Horne ushered me into a space slightly larger than a freight elevator, containing only a laminate table and two molded plastic desk chairs. No window. I glanced up. Of course, a surveillance camera. This was real life, not television. When he closed the door, I felt claustrophobic.
We sat across from each other.
“Suppose you start from the beginning,” he said.
So I told him about Ian and the postcards, and something flickered in his eyes that made me realize he’d found the one Rebecca had sent Ian, though he said nothing.
“We met at the Tidal Basin,” I said. “That was Ian’s suggestion.”
“First time you me
t?” he asked.
“No. I encountered him at the Willard hotel on Saturday night. He was looking for Rebecca and didn’t know her room number.”
“Encountered?”
“He asked me to wait with him in the hotel bar when he found out I knew Rebecca. He’d been drinking and sort of made a pass at me so I said no. A hotel concierge escorted him out, or at least I think he did. By then I’d taken the elevator to my room.”
I took Horne through the rest of it—dinner at the Tune Inn, running into Summer Lowe, and finally ending up at Ian’s place trying to figure out whether Rebecca had somehow given us a coded message as to where she’d left information that could help Ian in his testimony before the Senate Banking Subcommittee.
If trying to find a clue in a poem written in 1731 by Alexander Pope had seemed far-fetched last night, the expression on Detective Horne’s face as I continued talking made me wonder if he thought he was listening to someone who was waiting for her mother ship to return from her planet.
“So,” he said, leaning closer to me, “did you figure out this secret code, Ms. Montgomery?”
He emphasized “secret code” ever so slightly and I blushed. Maybe he did think I was nuts.
“No, we didn’t. Look, Detective, I know it must seem completely loony to you, but here’s what’s absolutely true: Rebecca Natale sent Ian and me identical postcards that she bought at the Lincoln Memorial on Saturday with our phone numbers on them and a quote from Alexander Pope. She left flowers at the Wall for a man named Richard Boyle, whom she said was her biological father, but there’s no Richard Boyle listed as having been killed in 1975. There is, however, a poem written by Pope to Boyle, and Rebecca planned to give me a book of Pope’s poetry, which she’d inscribed to me. I assume you’ve got it since you confiscated all of her things when you searched our hotel room.”
Horne stood up. “Stay right here.”
He was back in five minutes with the book, which he slid across the table. “Be my guest.”
I flipped to the index and found the page with the epistle to Richard Boyle. After a moment, I looked up.
