Still, all things considered, I felt pretty good. The Tylenol codeine helped, but so did the news. The ancillary arrests had gone smoothly, the murder investigation closed without wrecking the island tourist trade, and Haden Krakauer was handling things impeccably in my absence. Victor Galassi, who should have been in jail on at least seven counts of grand larceny, fraud, and racketeering, was at least still alive, out and about, still just as prone to criminal activity, and still just as likely to make a mistake.
If he ever did, I’d be waiting.
Meanwhile, no one had accidentally dosed themselves with Barsch’s aconitine. That was a plus.
Hector Cruz had talked his teammate into confessing and Superintendent Bissel had shown unusual restraint in limiting punishment to a two-week suspension and a hundred hours of community service. A cynic might say that he just wanted to keep his championship Whalers football team intact and, as usual, a cynic would be right. I didn’t care about that. Any excuse to give a teenage kid a second chance was fine with me.
Carrie and Hector were happier than ever and she was delighted to see that her Grocery Gumshoe deductions had been so accurate. “Maybe you’ll listen to me next time,” she chided gently, patting my intact left hand. Tim had good news, too. He’d finally managed to catch a few waves, impressing Debbie Garrison, using Billy Delavane’s secret trick. “Which is what?” I asked him.
“Smiling,” Tim said.
“Smiling?”
“The biggest, sappiest goofiest smile you can manage.”
“And that helps you catch waves?”
“Totally. Billy says smiling rewires your brain. It relaxes you. You’re not as nervous or scared and you have more fun. It’s like your face is giving your brain orders. But it really works. It’s awesome.”
Equally awesome—Tim Hobbes had been named the Artistic Director of the Theater Lab and his first announced production for the new season was Sebastian Cruz’s play, Fundamental Attribution Error. In a lovely tip of the hat to the history of the organization, he had persuaded Howard Anderwald, the founder, to direct the play and Tag Reemer, the Lab’s movie star figurehead, to play one of the leads. Best of all, he had rehired Marcia Stoddard as Production Designer.
She was our first visitor when I got home from the hospital.
“Oh, my God, you look terrible,” she blurted, right at the front door.
“You should have seen me two days ago.”
“How many were there? The men who did this to you?”
As I may have mentioned, the precise details of the incident at the Nanhumacke Preserve hadn’t quite filtered out to the general public yet.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” I said. But she probably would. My combat skills were not exactly the subject of legend.
Jane offered her coffee and we all sat down in the living room. While we caught up with each other’s news and passed along the requisite congratulations, I studied the two women seated next to each other on the big couch—virtual twins, supposedly. In fact they scarcely looked alike apart from some basic Identikit details: short, slim, frizzy haired, long as opposed to round or squared-off faces. It was tragic and peculiar that two women who shared so many basic features could look so different. Marcia was just shy of homely and Jane was gorgeous. Don’t take my word for it—check out her dust jacket photographs.
I was musing about this, not really listening to the conversation, when Marcia got to the point of her visit.
“I know where Refn hid his blackmail money.”
That got my attention. “Really?”
She dug into her big canvas purse and pulled out a cascade of pearls, at least five strings of them. These were sitting in the Theater Lab jewelry collection.”
I picked one up, held it to the light as if I could discern anything special about them.
“They’re natural,” Marcia said. “As opposed to cultured. I had them tested to be sure. Look at the rose-green overtones. That was the giveaway for me.”
I handed them back. “You’re a detective, too, Marcia.”
Jane grinned. “I’m using this in my next book.”
“These strands can go for anywhere from seventy thousand dollars to half a million or more. And Refn just…left them, in a pile next to the rhinestones and the cubic zirconia.”
“I guess he figured no one would notice.”
“Big mistake. That’s my domain, Chief Kennis. I notice everything.”
“Wow.”
“So…what do I do with them?”
Jane shrugged. Both women studied my battered face. The King Solomon of South Shore Road. I think I came up with a workable idea. “Five strands, total? I say we put four of them up for sale at some respected New York auction house and split the proceeds among the blackmail victims.”
“Sounds fair,” Jane said.
“What about the fifth strand?” Marcia asked.
“That’s your finder’s fee.”
“Wait, that’s—”
“We’d never have recovered anything if not for you. And no one would have ever seen a dime. As to how many strands you actually found? Who can say?”
“Is that legal?”
“Not strictly. But it will make everyone happy. And your secret is safe with me.”
She glanced nervously over at Jane.
Jane lifted her right hand. “Me, too!”
“Oh, my God. Really?”
I nodded. “Put them somewhere safe. Or just back with the costume jewelry.”
She smiled. “Good idea.”
As she was leaving, she turned in the doorway and gave me an impulsive hug. I felt her lips on my neck for a second, then she scurried away.
We watched her go. Was she actually walking on air? It was hard to tell. “Kissing my twin, in plain sight of half the town!” Jane said. “That’s a very confusing way to commit adultery.”
“How about killing your enemy’s twin brother? That’s a weird way to commit murder. And Hollister was about ten seconds from doing exactly that.”
“And then Galassi plays himself and his brother in a play about Hollister almost killing him. And almost gets killed himself. By a guy playing Hollister so Hollister can take the fall for the killing. Or something. This gives me a headache. And I write this crazy shit for a living.”
I shrugged. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
“Or in this case fiction is stranger than fact based on fiction based on fictionalized fact.”
“Ouch.”
I hobbled back to the living room behind her, and sat down while she poured out the last of the coffee.
She settled in next to me. “I’ll tell you what bothers me the most. Everything’s fake. Everything’s counterfeit. Refn’s hundred-dollar bills, Refn himself. And Galassi and Barsch, or Fillion, or whatever her real name was…and the wine on stage that’s really poison, and the keyboard cleaner that’s really some kind of frost-bite mace weapon, and the faked sim card…and the evidence against Barsch in Galassi’s safe-deposit box—that’s fake now, too…and all those stories about what Hollister was doing the day of the murder…and...and even the pearls! The fake pearls aren’t even real fakes! You start to wonder…is there anything that’s not a counterfeit?”
I saw my moment. I was never going to get a better one. I set my coffee down carefully. “Well…technically, those pearls are real. And so is this.”
I pulled the engagement ring out of my pocket and held it out to her with my good left hand.
“Henry…”
I got down on my knees in front of the couch, awkwardly nudging the coffee table backward. “Will you marry me?”
She took the ring between two fingers, examining it like a jeweler. “This is Dot Tarrant’s engagement ring.”
“The sisters wanted you to have it. And it was the red herring in an actual mystery
so I thought—perfect for you.”
She didn’t smile at my little joke. “You’re perfect for me, Henry Kennis.” She gave me her hand and let me slip on the ring. “It’s beautiful, but you could have given me a loop of string, and it wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“So, you will marry me?”
She took my hand in both of hers. “I would have married you the first day we met.”
“I should have asked.”
“No. This is better. I wanted your kids’ approval.”
“Well, you’ve got it.”
“And Sam thinks you’re a super hero.”
“It’s the siren and the flashers.”
“No, it’s not.”
She slid down onto the floor beside me, and folded herself into my arms. I kissed her, and she kissed me back hard and sweet and it hurt like a punch but I didn’t care. And speaking of the kids, after a while, I glanced over her shoulder and saw all three of them standing in the living room door, studiously licking ice cream cones from the Juice Bar, watching us like we were zoo animals.
Carrie nodded sagely at Tim. “Told you so.”
Jane pulled away an inch or two, pushed the coffee table clear with one foot, spilling magazines and the philodendron in its china lightship basket to the floor. “Get over here, all three of you.”
There was one second of hesitation, then the kids bounded at us and pounced into a gleeful five-way hug.
I thought I was going to pass out from the pain in my ribs, but I got my feet under me, stood up, and said, “Let’s keep our priorities straight. Back to the Juice Bar! Grown-ups need ice cream, too.”
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Nantucket Counterfeit Page 27
