by Kathy Reichs
“Please.” Arcing the hefty sapphire toward a grouping of love seat, armchairs, and marble-topped coffee and end tables. “We’ll be more comfortable by the window.”
The love seat positioned me with my back to a wall. I chose it and placed my purse by my side. Crage sat opposite and crossed his legs. He was elderly, but trim and tanned. His double-breasted blazer was blue, his bow tie fuchsia, his trousers cream.
I could see Broad Street through the glass behind his head, some of Meeting. The sidewalks along each were filled with tourists moving in both directions.
“Perhaps a drink?” Crage winked, as though suggesting something terribly naughty. “The sun is nicely over the yardarm somewhere in the world.”
“Why not,” I said.
“Cognac?”
“Bien sur.”
Crage crossed to a wet bar and poured from a decanter that looked like a chem lab beaker. Except for the gold stopper.
“Frapin Cuvee 1888.” Handing me a crystal snifter. “It’s French.”
“Beats my usual Copper and Kings. It’s American.”
Unexpected humor wasn’t Crage’s strong suit. “Would you prefer something else?”
“Not a chance.”
I raised my glass in salute, then took a mouthful. Smoke and flowers exploded on my tongue.
“Yours is such a lovely name, Ms. Night. May I call you Sunnie?” Vowels thicker than caramel on a Granny Smith.
“Ms. Night works for me.”
“As you wish.”
“You know why I’m here.”
“Please.” Crage spread his hands. “From your perspective.”
“Opaline Drucker wants me to find the people who killed her daughter and grandson. And to determine what happened to her granddaughter. She says online access was recently attempted for a bank account known only to Stella and her mother.”
“And to me.”
“Mrs. Drucker believes that attempt might have been made by Stella herself.”
“Or by error, by hackers, by delinquents phishing from Beijing.”
I couldn’t disagree. “Our arrangement includes payment of a fee and expenses.”
“You will be going to Chicago.”
“For starters.”
“How much do you need?”
I quoted a figure.
“Would you prefer that in cash or wire transfer?”
“I’ll take five thousand in cash now. Direct deposit will work for the rest. Later.” I handed him a paper with the account number and routing information.
Crage’s lips and brows displayed something I couldn’t interpret, then he placed the paper on the table. “If you require additional monies, simply let me know.”
We each took a hit of cognac. The stuff could have made Bonaparte wet his breeches.
“Tell me about Opaline Drucker.” I set down my glass.
“Are you a newcomer to Charleston?”
“Not exactly.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“All my life.” All that I’ll talk about.
“You’ve not heard of the Drucker family? Drucker Park? Drucker Boulevard? Drucker Pavilion?”
“I’ve Googled the name. I want to know about the lady.”
“Opaline’s assets are such that she will never want for anything. The money is inherited, of course. Mostly from land, some from phosphate mining and other interests.”
“I’m not concerned she’ll stiff me on the bill.”
Crage missed the sarcasm. Or chose to ignore it. “Far from it. I’ve managed Opaline’s portfolio for years. She remains one of the richest women in South Carolina.” Sincerely grieved shake of the head. “Her entire fortune would have gone to Mary Gray and the children.”
More about wealth. I wanted to know about character.
“But what is Opaline like?” I pressed.
Crage swirled his cognac. His nails were manicured, his cuticles trimmed with the same surgical precision as his hair. When he answered, his words were carefully chosen. Breeding? Professional ethics? Or something else?
“Opaline is the last living member of an old Charleston family. She is eighty-two and was brought up in a different time.”
“Meaning?”
“She is a very strong-willed woman. And smart as a whippet. But ladies of her station were not educated as girls are today. Opaline was sent to finishing schools in Europe. She learned to embroider, play piano, speak Italian and French.”
Outside the window framing Crage’s head, an enterprising pigeon was grazing the sill. Below, on Meeting Street, a horse-drawn carriage was blocking a Budweiser delivery truck. A line of stalled traffic was building. Through the glass I could hear muted honking.
“That being said,” Crage continued, “Opaline has outlived two husbands. And the terrible tragedy that brings us together.”
Crage drew a breath as though to go on, let it out without speaking.
“What aren’t you saying?”
“Don’t let appearances fool you, Ms. Night. Opaline Drucker is cunning, resourceful, and tough as nails. When she wants something, there is no stopping her.”
“Is that ‘something’ revenge?”
“I am not a psychologist. I cannot evaluate Opaline’s motives.”
“Say I find the people who killed her family. Say there’s no way to bring charges. What would she do?”
“I cannot answer that.”
“Besides wiring money, what can you do?”
“I can put you in touch with Opaline’s people in Chicago.”
“She has people in Chicago?”
“Her financial interests are complex.”
“I thought you handled all her affairs.”
“Opaline is not what I would label a hands-off client.”
Not certain the meaning of his response. “You implied she’s not worldly.”
“I meant she is not formally schooled in areas such as law and economics. She is, however, self-educated. On many topics.”
“Assassination?”
“I beg your pardon?” Affronted.
“A link to your colleague in Chicago would be helpful.”
Crage pulled an iPhone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. “Layton Furr.” He read off a phone number and address. I wrote them in my tablet.
“While I’m at it, may I have your information?” Crage raised his thumbs, ready to input data.
“No,” I said.
Looking startled and less than pleased, Crage pocketed his phone.
“Have Furr book a hotel for me,” I said. “I’ll go early tomorrow.”
“We favor the Ritz.”
“That should do.” We?
“Do you mind terribly flying commercial?”
“Hardship builds character.”
“Shall I have my secretary arrange for a flight?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Have you a preference concerning seating?”
“Indoor.”
A slight dip of the brows, then Crage walked to his desk, dialed an extension, and relayed the info. “Mr. Furr will meet you at O’Hare.” When he’d returned to his chair, placed the handset on the table, and recrossed his legs: “He can provide background on the whole ugly affair.”
“I’ll need to meet with the cops who worked the case.”
“Mr. Furr will arrange an introduction.”
“And visit the school where the attack took place.”
“Of course. He’ll be happy to organize anything you might require during your stay.”
“Maybe some of that deep-dish pizza.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s mentioned in all the travel magazines.”
The phone rang. Crage answered, listened, pressed the handset to his chest.
“United has a mid-morning flight. It’s a regional jet, I’m afraid, so there is no first class.” Looking truly pained at the thought.
“I’ll manage,” I said.
“That w
ill be fine, Mary.” Crage disconnected.
“Tell me what you know about Stella,” I said.
Crage looked at me for so long I thought perhaps he hadn’t heard. I was about to repeat my request when he finally spoke.
“What I am going to say does not leave this office.”
“Mr. Crage, I—”
“I will make reference to nothing illegal.”
I didn’t reply.
“Four bodies were found at the scene of the bombing. Fortunately, most of the students had already departed for the day. All were”—slight pause—“disfigured.” Crage hesitated, considering whether to elaborate, left it at that. “The victims were identified by the medical examiner. Mary Gray, Bowen, and two members of the group with whom they were touring. Stella was not among the dead.”
“Mrs. Drucker told me as much. Surely the police searched. The FBI.”
“Extensively, and I believe quite competently. The problem was they had nothing to work with. Save for one woman who thought she might have seen a suspicious van, there were no eyewitnesses. No vehicle. No manifesto sent to the media. An MO that matched naught elsewhere. No clues whatsoever other than a poor-quality surveillance video shot from across the street. The group struck and vanished. In the chaos, Stella vanished, too.”
I waited out another searching pause.
“What Opaline probably did not tell you is that she received a phone call at her home three weeks after the incident. A man claimed to have her granddaughter and demanded fifty thousand dollars. He threatened to kill Stella instantly and painfully should the authorities be contacted.”
“Did Opaline ask for proof?”
“The man read a quote he claimed Stella had given to him. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.”
“Alfred, Lord Tennyson.” How the hell did I know that?
“Impressive, Ms. Night. The saying was one of Stella’s favorites.”
“Opaline paid the ransom,” I guessed.
“Against my advice.”
“And never saw her granddaughter.”
“No.”
“And the police have never been told.”
“Opaline is a very proud woman. Proud and stubborn.”
And rich and gullible. I didn’t say it.
Crage glanced at his watch, a blue and gold Rolex Yacht-Master that reported the state of every wind and tide on the globe.
“My goodness me. How has it grown so late? You must have a million chores to complete before setting off.”
With regret, I downed the remaining molecules of my cognac. Crage stood. I stood.
“Ms. Night, might I make a personal observation?”
I cocked a brow.
“I notice you are wearing a firearm.”
“I’m not flying to Chicago just for the pizza.”
“I understand. And I am not judging you. Quite the contrary. I find the presence of the gun strangely reassuring. I mention it only because I am certain the airlines have rules concerning that sort of thing. Perhaps the city of Chicago has laws pertaining to citizens carrying concealed weapons. Do you need help along those lines?”
“No, thank you.”
“I assume you have the proper permit?”
“I’m good.”
“Let’s hope so.” Crage’s lips flicked a vanishing smile. “Should anything unfortunate occur, I further assume that the Drucker name will not be associated.”
“Opaline and I chatted about discretion.”
“It is essential.”
“I never asked the dog’s name.”
“Yes.”
Crage crossed to a framed landscape on the wall to the right of the door. Lots of trees, a pond, a couple of swans. After swinging the painting forward, he rotated a knob, then leaned in. A few seconds, then he closed the safe and repositioned the artwork. Returning to me, he held out a stack of bills. A thick one.
I took the money and placed it in my purse.
“Are you not nervous carrying so much cash?”
“I find the gun strangely reassuring.”
“One more cautionary note. Opaline can be…” Again the hesitation. “How best to put it? Erratic.”
“Meaning?”
“Tread carefully.” Indicating the door. “Shall we?”
“Let’s do.”
I managed to maintain the bravado all the way to street level.
Walking toward the parking deck, it dissolved.
At one time the Windy City had some of the strictest gun laws on the books. Then came a smackdown from the U.S. Supreme Court. Now any fool can load up and stick a gun in her shorts.
Except for assault weapons. A restriction that was really going to cramp my style.
While on the job, my right cornea took the business end of a junkie’s blade. Blinded by blood and Murray’s Superior Pomade, I thought I felt the guy reach for a gun. He went to the morgue. I went to the ER.
Thirty percent visual loss and the finding that my collar was unarmed earned me the choice of a desk or early retirement. Not this chick. I said adios and turned in my badge. As a retired cop with a disability, thanks to the police protection bill I have the right to carry concealed anywhere in the country.
I knew that TSA regs allow unloaded handguns inside luggage if properly secured in hard-sided containers. I also knew that I’d have to declare a firearm at the counter, show my paperwork, maybe fill out a form. And check the bag. A practice I view as akin to Russian roulette.
Charleston isn’t London or L.A. Still, evening rush hour can be a bitch. While slogging across town, talking myself calm, I made the decision to take my Glock 23. Small enough but big enough. If someone stole it from my suitcase, I’d be out only five hundred bucks.
Once across the Cooper River, the worst congestion was behind me. Or so it seemed. I suspect the Ravenel Bridge has a peculiar effect on the primitive parts of my brain. The high white swoop above the water always makes me mildly giddy. Or the height and soaring girders scare me shitless.
I made only two stops. At the Walmart I bought a prepaid smartphone and a thirty-day wireless Web-text-talk card. Paid cash, activated my new toy. At the Petco I snagged a three-pound bag of pumpkin seeds.
Twenty minutes later I was crossing the Intracoastal Waterway onto Sullivan’s Island. A short distance, another bridge, not a pants-pisser, and I was on the Isle of Palms. The sun was dropping behind the Boathouse, turning Breach Inlet gold in a great wide triangle.
I scanned the road ahead, the shoulders to either side. A few cars at the restaurant, a scattering of pelicans and gulls on the dock. After checking the rearview mirror, I lowered my window. The mingled scents of marsh grass, salt water, and discarded shrimp casings filled my nose.
Almost home. Almost safe.
I continued on Palm Boulevard, passed the IOP Connector, two small commercial strips, eventually wound my way onto Morgan Creek Drive, then a little-used loop called Lower Waterway. Palmetto palms and live oaks skipped sinewy shadows across my windshield. Here and there, a house window glowed yellow in the deepening dusk.
Just before the end of the pavement, past all but one, I pulled into a gravel driveway beside a tilted mailbox labeled P. BEAUMONDE. A quick three-sixty glance, then I parked and got out.
The air was still. I stood a moment, listening to the quiet.
April was too early, but soon tourists and out-of-town vacation-home owners would pack IOP. They’d slick up and hit the beaches, gorge on fried oysters and shrimp, buy plastic crap in the souvenir shops. None of that blighted Goat Island. There one heard nothing but night birds, palm fronds, and the occasional boat.
I wheep-wheeped the lock on Beau’s Audi, then headed toward a one-story frame house with weathered gray siding and a single pair of windows looking onto the street. A carport. A shed whose longevity looked questionable and had for decades. But follow the oyster shell path around the corner and the view is kick-ass.
I looked toward the waterway. Saw two boats tied up, no one on t
he pier.
A three-step climb to the porch.
“Anyone home?” Calling through the screen.
A series of guttural grunts, then a bulldog waddle-charged into the room.
“Hey, Sherman.” I opened the door.
Sherman hustled over, a tank meaning business. After sniffing my jeans, a process that shared at least a quart of saliva, he wagged the short stump that passed for his tail. I patted his head. He slumped onto one haunch and blew air through his nose.
“Yo!” I shouted.
Beau bellowed from somewhere out of sight. “Cool your jets. I’m coming.”
“I’ll be on the porch.”
I patted my thigh. Sherman wheezed to his feet and joined me, pace saying the move outside was a bad idea. I sat on the swing and pushed back and forth with one foot. Was about to ask the dog about his day when Beau spoke through the screen door.
“You want a brew?”
“I do.”
Footsteps retreated, returned, then the hinges whirrped. Beau stepped out and handed me an Amstel.
“Thanks,” I said.
Beau dropped into a rocker, leaned back, and parked his feet on the railing. We both took a few moments to eyeball the water and the marsh. To down some beer. Yeah, we’re predictable.
“Sherman tell you he don’t like his new diet?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“He will.”
I watched a line of pelicans swoop high, then low to skim over the waves. Asked, “Is Opaline Drucker the piece of work I think she is?”
“She’s a tough old cookie. All the Druckers are. Were,” Beau corrected himself. “You met with her?”
“And her representative, a guy named Peter Crage.”
“Douchebag, but a mannerly one.”
“Crage’s desk probably cost more than your house.”
“He’s well connected.”
“Do you know him?”
“I know of him.”
“And?” Taking another hit of the Amstel. Not as good as the mannerly douchebag’s cognac, but close.
“Crage handles very few portfolios. Old clients, older money. He must sing a sweet tune, because folks tend to stick with him.”
“Or sing no tune at all.”
Beau tipped his head, acknowledging I had a point.
“Has he ever had complaints? Been investigated?”
