While Mrs. Stanhope talked, Murdock jotted notes on the back of an envelope.
“There were rumors, you see. For example, a bellman at the Amarillo Hotel saw Miss Diamond coming out of different rooms at two in the morning. This was before people from the church reported seeing her in Joe Wilson’s pew. When things were going well, she was a frequent guest in their house, mostly for Sunday lunch. As the bankruptcy business was happening, the Wilsons went out of town, leaving young Joey behind, and guess who I saw leaving the Wilson house at dawn?”
“Miss Penny Diamond,” Murdock said.
“Is my sad tale assisting you with your discoveries?”
Murdock said yes. Then he showed her the yearbook photo of Gerry Ramsay.
“Do you know this young man?”
“Why, that’s young Gerald Ramsay. His father ran the High Plains Trust.”
“What kind of kid was he?”
“Kind of kid? One look at that photo tells you everything. That boy was smug and smart-alecky. From the get-go, he was a bully and a trouble-maker.”
Mrs. Stanhope had library skills. She knew how to extract a printed copy from a micro-fiche, along with a newspaper photo that showed workers holding picket signs. In the background was Wilson’s Fine Furniture, with a tilted nameplate. Murdock asked again about the fight.
“Well,” she said. “Some said it was a fight, some said it was a scuffle. It took place on a bleak winter afternoon in the playground at Wolflin School. Gerry was bigger; the Wilson boy was slight of build. People said the boy started the fight. Names were called, blows were exchanged, and bystanders let it go on too long. Young Joey boy spent time in the hospital. I took him a box of cookies, made them myself. In the hospital, with his jaw wired, that poor boy looked like death itself.”
“What started the fight, Mrs. Stanhope?”
“Some people said it was the business, the nasty tone of this article you see before us. Others claimed it was a matter of honor. Joey Wilson was the white knight; Gerry Ramsay was the ogre.”
“This is a wild guess,” Murdock said. “But could the Wilson kid have been defending the honor of a female?”
“He did inquire about her in the hospital,” Mrs. Stanhope said.
“Do you remember what he said?”
“He asked where she was. He said she had come to the hospital to tell him she was leaving. He couldn’t say more because of Mildred.”
“Mildred was Joey’s mother?”
“Didn’t I already say that? I could use a cup of tea, all this remembering. Do you have transportation, Mr. Murdock?”
They rode in the Escalade to Furr’s Cafeteria, where Mrs. Stanhope remarked on the high quality of the cherry pie, evidence of consistency in an otherwise topsy-turvy universe. Murdock bought two slices. Mrs. Stanhope halved her slice—for later, she said. She opened her purse, pulled out a plastic sandwich bag, inserted her half-slice.
She ate the pie with a knife and fork, European style. She talked about Europe. She liked England, the London library where she did research on Virginia Woolf. But she had fallen in love with Rome. She had been there seven times, wondering—was Rome a good place to die? If so, then one could come to rest in the heart of civilization. She quoted the opening lines from a poem.
Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
“Is that the Italian guy who took the trip to Hell?” Murdock asked.
“That’s our Dante Alighieri, Mr. Murdock. Good for you.”
“That’s where I am with this case,” Murdock said. “Stumbling along a crooked pathway.”
“I have been thinking about honor,” Mrs. Stanhope said. “It would not describe Gerry, but it might have moved Young Joey Wilson … to take steps, I mean.”
Murdock asked what happened to the Wilsons, that money they got from Ackerman. They remodeled, she said. They bought a new car. Joseph stopped going to church, Mildred was infatuated with the new preacher. After Joseph died, they moved to a new home closer to the church.
While Mrs. Stanhope chatted, filling in her picture of Amarillo 30 years ago, Murdock wished that Helene was here. This interview needed the woman’s touch—all that mysterious linkage, the accuracy of intuition.
When tea-time was over, the Escalade drove them back to the library. They exchanged emails, phone numbers. Mrs. Stanhope promised to search for a photo of Penny Diamond from thirty years ago. Murdock climbed out, held the door, felt the bite of the wind.
“One last question, Mrs. Stanhope.”
“Of course, and please call me Dorothy.”
“Was Gerry Ramsay’s dad … was he Joe Wilson’s banker?”
“He could have been. Great Plains Bank was always in the news, all that pilfering going on, wonderful words like embezzlement.”
“So Ramsay Senior could have brought these Arc-Angel folks to town?”
“Bankers do run in the same circles,” she said. “This wind is freezing. Would you walk me to the door?”
Murdock walked her to the door. A homeless guy tipped his hat as Mrs. Stanhope went past. Murdock gave the guy a five.
“How did Joe Wilson die?” Murdock said.
“He died from falling,” she said. “It was Christmas. They found him below the fire escape at Wolflin School.”
On the way to the Amarillo airport, Murdock phoned Helene. It was Thursday. Her voicemail told him to leave a message.
Chapter 43
She came to Arizona for the pool.
Prague to Paris.
Paris to Boston.
Boston to Phoenix.
Phoenix to Sedona.
Sedona to this village, the Oak Creek. How charming.
Iveta Macek stood with her nose to the curved view-window, looking down at the pool where children played a game. She felt grubby from travel. They had to wait three hours at the Logan airport, two hours in Phoenix. They had to wait for the rental car—Daniel had reserved a giant Range Rover—and then he had driven over the speed limit, passing cars, Iveta watching for the police. They made her nervous.
They were waiting now for a room.
Daniel had one of his lists. She could hear him behind her, talking to reception, a Latino named Raul. Last night, Daniel had proposed. Iveta had said yes. Her visa was good for two more months. She did not love Daniel. He emitted a body odor that was not pleasing.
Iveta watched a woman enter the pool area.
Dark hair, wearing a white hotel robe.
The woman came from a doorway that led outside.
Iveta twiddled her fingers at Daniel, pointed down at the pool, and made a modified paddling motion. She walked away from reception, through the Lobby to the outside door. A path curved toward the tennis courts.
She saw people playing tennis.
An old man in a red baseball cap and a pretty blonde girl with a ponytail.
The old man gave Iveta a look.
She shivered. The old eyes had to belong to Papa Ackerman.
Iveta turned left, went through a doorway that said Pool and smelled chlorine. The dark-haired woman was swimming laps. Mothers were herding their children to a doorway that said ELEVATORS. The old hotel had a lovely feel. Not so new, not so shiny.
Iveta shrugged out of her track suit. Underneath she wore a T-shirt and shorts. Her new bikini was packed away. The luggage was Daniel’s problem. She kicked off her shoes—new Nike’s—and ran for the water. She launched into a flat racing dive, hit the water and felt reborn, timing her stroke to the little blue float balls that held up the rope marking the lane. She lost herself in the glory of swimming.
Crawl, breast stroke, butterfly, backstroke.
She was out of shape. She had not told Daniel about her missed period. She was almost certain the baby was his. She was breathing hard when she climbed the ladder and left the pool.
The dark-haired woman introduced herself.
Her name wa
s Steinbeck, like the American writer. Iveta had read The Grapes of Wrath. This Steinbeck woman worked for Papa Ackerman. Her face was brown from the sun.
Beside this woman, Iveta felt so pale. The Steinbeck woman waved at the pool boy. He brought a robe for Iveta.
“How about a coffee?”
“American coffee? It is not so good.”
“They can make you an okay espresso.”
Iveta sat at a glass-topped table with Steinbeck.
The coffee was better than okay. Iveta was living the American Dream. Sitting beside a pool, wrapped in a robe, no ice, no snow, no cold feet, no city streets with frantic drivers …. She felt bliss.
“So Helene, you are working for Papa Ackerman. What is your job, please?”
“Daniel didn’t tell you?”
“From him I have heard nothing.”
“Some bodyguarding, some detecting.”
“Detecting what?”
“Someone is killing old friends. Mr. Ackerman thinks he’s next.”
“Daniel said nothing to me of this.”
Steinbeck opened a spiral notebook to a page of circles and lines. She called it a mind-map.
“Here’s where we are with the detecting,” Steinbeck said. “It’s a dance between past and present, something that happened thirty years ago.”
Iveta saw a large box on the left; next to the box was a circle.
The box was labeled AMARILLO-THE PAST.
The circle was SEDONA-THE PRESENT.
There were many names she did not recognize, and then she saw Daniel’s name in a box with Lottie and Arthur.
Iveta knew Lottie as Madame Belle, her friend and one-time employer. Seeing Madame Belle’s name sent a shiver up Iveta’s spine. She sipped her coffee, felt someone watching, looked up at the view-window where she had stood minutes ago. She went back to the mind-map. A curved red line connected Daniel’s box to Papa Ackerman. Family.
“What is this mind-map doing, please?”
“Have you met Daniel’s siblings yet?”
“Daniel says they are coming.”
“So you only know Daniel.”
“Yes.”
“What’s he like, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Steinbeck said, “Mr. Ackerman is very bright. Very generous with money. He has an eye for the ladies. Someone wants to kill him. I was wondering how he and Daniel were alike?”
Iveta shivered. What did this woman want? One minute she was friendly, the next minute she quizzed like a policeman.
“Daniel has the eye also,” Iveta said. “He is tight with money, so tight we flew second class, the seats were small, he squirmed all the way. He likes me to shop at consignments. Killing? Who would want to kill Daniel?”
“How did you two meet anyway?”
The question hung in the air. It seemed innocent, girl-to-girl. But this woman Steinbeck, although she seemed casual and not interested, was very clever. So instead of telling the truth, Iveta evaded. “We met on the line.”
“The Internet?”
“Yes.”
“You were in Boston?”
“Paris,” Iveta said.
“Were you modeling?”
“Why do you say modeling?”
“You’re pretty,” Steinbeck said. “You have a lovely figure.”
Iveta said thank you. She felt quite warm. She looked into her coffee cup. It was empty. She looked around for the coffee boy, but Steinbeck had already waved at him for another.
“Sorry,” Steinbeck said. “I didn’t mean to probe.”
“You were detecting, perhaps?”
The coffee arrived. Steinbeck grinned, touched her cup to Iveta’s. What was this woman up to? Was she a friend? Was she an invader? The door to the tennis courts opened and the old man came through, followed by Daniel and the pretty blonde. Everyone knew everyone, except for Iveta.
“There you are,” Daniel said. “I was starting to worry, baby.”
The old man had a powerful handshake.
He had yellow eyes and a wide grin. The eyes ate her up.
She had met rich men before—most of them were Arabs—but Papa Ackerman was her first billionaire. The girl was named Teri … something American. She had a ring on a chain around her throat. She winked at Iveta; they were the youngest.
The coffee boy arrived with another table, followed by a waitress pushing a serving cart on wheels. Iveta saw pastries, a white teapot, bottles of water. There was an Americano for Papa, a fresh espresso for Iveta, iced tea for the blonde Teri. Daniel asked for a latte, nutmeg, and skim milk.
Papa Ackerman handed Iveta a keycard for the penthouse. “Visit anytime,” he said. There was a twinkle in his eye.
Giselle Roux, who wanted to be Iveta’s friend, arrived with keys for Nine, the suite with the best view, and Daniel’s card for penthouse access. Iveta stood up, wanting to unpack. She shook hands with Ackerman and Helene. She spoke to Daniel, who was chewing a pastry. Daniel was fifty years old. With his father so close by, he seemed younger, a greedy little boy. Giselle offered to show Iveta their room. As she left the table, Iveta heard praise from Papa Ackerman.
“Danny,” Papa said. “This one is a keeper.”
“Thanks, Ack. When is Artie coming? “
“Tomorrow. He’s flying in from Miami.”
“What about Lottie?”
“The same, only from Paris,” Ackerman said. “Would you excuse me? I need a word with Helene.”
“Go, go. I see why you love it here.”
*****
Ackerman waited for Helene to gather up her student papers. He remembered his student days, books and paper, the never-ending quest for the perfect fountain pen for writing the best prose. He carried her rucksack. They walked to a table near the staircase. From here, Ackerman could see Danny’s Czech chick and Giselle, waiting for the elevator. Ackerman asked Helene to sit down. He tapped on the table.
“What is it, Axel?”
“I want you to work for me.”
“I already work for you.”
“For a year. The pay is one million dollars—half now, half when you’ve worked six months. You’d be replacing Giselle Roux. She’s going back to school. Think about it.”
“What about Murdock?”
“Murdock’s a good guy. When’s he get back from grave-robbing?”
“This afternoon.”
“When are you gonna see Dr. Ruth?”
“This afternoon.”
“While you’re confessing, think about my offer.”
Ackerman left Helene alone. He strode across the room, to the table where Daniel Ackerman was stuffing food into his mouth while talking on his phone. Ackerman was thinking about Murdock. He liked the man, but did he want him around for a year?
Chapter 44
Their room on Nine was a corner suite overlooking a jagged red mountain, identified by Giselle as Cathedral Rock. Iveta adored the view. The airy, spacious room had been rented by a man who died falling off Cathedral Rock.
“When was it?” Iveta said.
“Monday,” Giselle said. “In the dark.”
“Did you know this man?”
“He was Axel’s old friend. The police think he was pushed. That woman, Helene Steinbeck, she’s been hired to investigate. He was one of Axel’s investors. I thought you should know.”
“Does Daniel know this?”
“I’m so sorry,” Giselle said. “It’s your first visit. I hope I haven’t spoiled—”
“Please, no,” Iveta said. “I love it here. I am sorry about your friend. Is there more I should hear?”
Giselle said no. The woman seemed embarrassed by death. Iveta was 27. She had faced death many times. To her, the red rock seemed far away, and much smaller than Mont Blanc, which she had climbed in her Army days.
It was time for a swim. Iveta changed into a bikini. Checked herself in the mirror. Still no sign of the baby growing inside her. She left the pool robe in the bath
room and chose a fluffier robe from the closet. The monogram said Sedona Landing. She wondered what it meant. In English, landing meant a safe harbor at the edge of the sea. The brochure said this valley with the red rocks had once been underwater.
She found flip-flops in the closet. Outside in the hallway, she tested the room card. In America, everything worked. She entered the elevator, joining a family of three—father, mother, child. Two buttons were lit. The L for Lobby and the LL, for the pool and the outdoors. The child made Iveta think of her belly. When should she tell Daniel about her condition? She was pondering this matter of timing when the elevator stopped at L. The little family exited. The doors hung open. She was planning her exercise. If she swam for a half hour today, then tomorrow she could add fifteen minutes.
The door was closing when she heard the voice of the fat man.
Her heart raced; the voice was getting closer. Someone said, Hold the goddamn elevator!
Iveta’s heart raced. The fat man sounded grouchy, whiny—that sharp voice, the Texas accent. The door closed. Iveta was frightened. The little bell went bong; the doors whispered open. She made a hood of the towel, scurried to the door that said TENNIS COURTS. She remembered the view window. If the fat man looked down, he could see her.
Outside, she stood behind some bushes, watching the tennis—a Latino boy hitting balls to a gray-haired woman. She counted to a hundred, took a deep breath, and walked up the path, opened the door to the pool. She saw the fat man looking down from the view window.
He had gained weight. His jowls shook when he talked. His companions were a woman with a clipboard and a tall man with gray hair who looked like an airline pilot. The gray hair was beautiful and abundant.
Iveta slipped through the door, hurried to the pool. No sign of Daniel or Papa Ackerman or the Steinbeck woman. With her back to the view-window, Iveta dropped her robe, grabbed a big red float ball, and went into the water. She put her chest on the ball, let her arms dangle in the water. When she saw people looking down from the view window, she hid behind the ball.
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