The Cruel Ever After (15 page)

She turned it over in her hand. “I’ve always liked scarabs. I gave Jane a scarab ring once.”

“What a lovely gift.”

“I doubt she ever wears it anymore.”

Next he removed an Egyptian inlaid steatite pectoral. “This was placed on the breast of a mummy, outside the wrappings. It’s from the New Kingdom, probably around 1300
B.C.
There’s a chip on the lower right corner, otherwise it’s in mint condition. I could sell this for—” He hesitated. “Thirty-five thousand. A piece very much like it sold at Christie’s in New York last month for forty-eight thousand.” He could tell he hadn’t found her price range yet. None of the artifacts had hit her sweet spot.

“Just in case none of those catch your fancy, I’ve brought you something truly special,” he said, removing a rectangular wooden case. He opened it and handed her a small, mottled brown piece of carved rock. “This is a cylinder seal. It was used to authenticate tablets before paper was invented. The man who owned this would roll it over the wet clay to make his mark. It was his seal, his signature if you will. It’s at least two thousand years old, possibly older.”

Her eyes finally lit up. “What’s it made of?”

“Steatite, which is considered a precious stone. It’s actually a compact form of talc. In a way, I think it’s fair to say that it’s a voice from the cradle of civilization.”

“What would something like this sell for?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand. I couldn’t let it go for any less.”

She nodded, mulling it over.

“I do have another, utterly extraordinary piece,” he said. “I don’t have it with me because it’s too precious to carry around.”

“What is it?” she asked.

He felt a rush of anticipation. If she bought the seal for two hundred and fifty thousand, he’d be a happy man. If he could sell her the bull, he’d be over the moon. “It’s called the Winged Bull of Nimrud. Nimrud was the capital of ancient Assyria—in the Bible it was called Kalakh. It’s located south of Nineveh on the Tigris River. The Nimrud gold, which is roughly two thousand eight hundred years old, has been called the most significant archaeological discovery since the treasures of Tutankhamen were discovered in 1923. I can assure you, very few of these pieces have found their way into private collections.”

“Do you have a picture?”

He removed one from the breast pocket of his tan cashmere sport coat. “You can keep it.”

She studied the photo. “It’s incredible,” she said, awe in her voice. “The face. The wings. The craftsmanship.”

“It’s very special.”

“How big is it?”

“Approximately four inches long by six inches wide—wing tip to wing tip. Five inches high.”

“How much—”

“It’s out of most people’s price range. I just wanted you to see it.”

“Tell me the price.”

“One million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

She bit her lip, continuing to stare at the photo. “If I bought this, I would need to have it appraised.”

“Are you seriously considering—”

“It’s perfect. A one-of-a-kind piece—art and history combined.”

“If you are serious, there’s a very fine, internationally recognized gallery of antiquities in St. Paul. I’m sure someone there could provide an appraisal.”

“You have all the paperwork?”

“Everything. But, Julia, I think you’d better give this a bit more thought. Owning an artifact like this is a significant responsibility. You’d need to insure it. Protect it. Make sure the environment in which you display it is temperature, light, and humidity controlled. In essence, you would need to become a curator.”

“I want it,” she said, suddenly, firmly. “I’d also like to buy the cylinder seal. But only after I have them appraised.”

“Are you positive? My advice would be to wait, think it over. ”

“Do you have other potential buyers for the bull?”

“Yes. One.”

“Something like this only comes along once in a lifetime.”

“That’s true.”

“I would need to pass this by my financial manager.”

“You should—and you should take his or her advice.” He could tell by the gleam in her eye that he’d hooked her deep. It wouldn’t matter what anyone told her, she would know better.

“When could I see the statue?”

“I’ll have to make some arrangements. Possibly tonight.”

“Perfect.”

The cheap cell phone in Chess’s pocket buzzed. “I need to take this,” he said.

“I’ll clean up our coffee. My first appointment got moved up. So I really need to get going.”

He stood by the windows looking down on the concession stands along the northeast shore of the lake. He’d parked his rust-mobile just down the street.

“It’s me,” came the voice he heard now in his dreams. “Your buddy, Ed. We’re finished, man.”

“Finished?”

“I don’t want the money. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re poison.”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the screen. The call had ended. What the hell was going on? As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he saw a man in a business suit walk across the street to his car. The man kept looking over his shoulder, glancing around to make sure nobody was watching. Crouching down, he put his hand under the front fender. Then he was up and walking away.

It was a tracking device. It had to be. Somebody had found him.

“Say, Julia?” He turned toward the open kitchen. “Where’s your car parked?”

“In the lot under the building.”

Perfect. “And where’s your appointment?”

“Downtown Minneapolis,” she said, closing up the dishwasher and switching it on.

“I wonder if you could give me a lift. You can drop me anywhere along Hennepin or Marquette.”

“Don’t you have a car?”

“At the moment, I’m relying on cabs.” He picked up his case. “Let’s plan on taking the items over to the gallery in St. Paul sometime in the next day or two. Once you have the appraisal, we can talk about how you want to pay for them.”

“A check? Money order? Cash? Whatever you like.”

He wasn’t cheating her. What she was about to buy was worth every penny of the price.

If it made them both happy, what was the harm?

16

Half an hour later, Jane was inside Cordelia’s cacophonous downtown loft, attempting, with little success, to listen to three simultaneous conversations—Hattie’s, Cordelia’s, and Mel’s. She’d come to tell Cordelia about Chess but needed to wait until they were alone.

Melanie was getting ready to take Hattie swimming at the Y. Cordelia had commandeered the kitchen to prepare everyone breakfast to order, since no two people wanted to eat the same thing. She hollered like a fry cook when an order came up.

“Fluffernutter sandwich,” she called.

Jane, expediting orders, brought the plate to Hattie, who was sitting on the floor in front of the TV, struggling to put on a pair of socks while watching Animal Planet.

“Change the channel,” hollered Cordelia.

“To what?” Jane hollered back.

“Turner Classic Movies.”

“No,” whined Hattie. “I want to watch the baby beavers.”

Cordelia stepped out of the kitchen. “No whining and no blaming. Those are the rules in this loft. I want you to have a well-rounded education, Hatts. There’s an old Cary Grant, Myrna Loy movie on right now.
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
, 1948. It’s a classic.”

“But I want to watch the
beavers
,” she cried.

Melanie picked up her flute and started playing. “I have so little time to practice these days,” she lamented. “Do you like flute music, Jane?”

“Love it. Can’t live without it.”

“Ham and eggs,” hollered Cordelia.

“That’s me,” said Melanie, grabbing the plate from Jane’s hand and making herself comfortable at the kitchen table. “That was a wonderful party last night. Had a long talk with your brother. Great guy. And Julia. I don’t know why you all hate her so much. She’s fascinating.”

“Jane?” said Cordelia, turning around to look at her, spatula in hand. “What about your breakfast needs?”

“How about a stiff shot of vodka.”

“I see,” said Cordelia.

Jane nodded to the toaster. “Your order is up.”

Blanche, the matriarch of Cordelia’s cat colony, had hunkered down next to the toaster, looking both bored and earnest—an emotional sleight of hand only a cat could manage.

“Ah, my Toaster Strudel. Ambrosia.”

Hattie flew into the kitchen. “Deeya, we have to pack.”

“Pack?” said Cordelia, slathering sweet white goo on the strudel.

“Right now.” She jumped up and down. “Right now. Right now. Right now.”

“Honey, I’d like to eat my breakfast.”

“But I want to go live in a mud house. We have to
pack
.”

“A. Mud. House,” deadpanned Cordelia.

“We need to bring lots of clothes. And my puppets. And pudding.”

“See what happens when she watches that nature crap,” said Cordelia out of the side of her mouth.

“A mud house might be interesting,” said Melanie.

“Well, then, just friggin’
sign me up,
” cried Cordelia. “Let’s grab the Easy-Bake Oven and we can all go.”

“Deeya, come on,” cried Hattie, yanking on her arm. “I want to go live with the beavers.”

Jane gave Hattie an understanding smile. She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the little girl into her arms. “You know, kiddo, if you and Deeya are going to go live with the beavers, you’ll need to learn how to be a good swimmer. I think it makes sense for you to go to the Y with Melanie this morning.”

Hattie twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I can swim.”

“But not very well.”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “Oh, all right.”

“Go finish your sandwich,” said Cordelia. “And turn off that wretched Animal Planet.”

“Oh, look, elephants,” cried Hattie, rushing back to the TV.

“I swear,” said Cordelia, wiping a hand across her forehead, “I’m going to put a childproof lock on that channel.”

Jane sat and listened to the back-and-forth, the arguing, the coaxing, the pleading, the yelling, then the kisses, the hugs, the waves, the long good-bye-bye. Hadn’t Raymond Chandler written a book with that title?

“I’m exhausted,” said Jane after Mel and Hattie were gone. The loft was a disaster. Toys and clothes everywhere.

“Tell me about it,” said Cordelia, lifting the dirty plates over to the counter. “I love it, though. Not every minute, but Hattie’s back home with me, where she belongs.”

“You could sure use a nanny. Or an army.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Someone specific?”

“An ex-nurse from Sacramento. We’re dickering over compensation.”

“You going to let her live here, like Cecily did?”

“All part of the negotiations.”

“What’s her name?”

“Val Brown.”

“I suppose she could move in across the street, like Mel. There are still some lofts that haven’t sold. Maybe you should think about installing a tightrope.”

“Ha ha.” Cordelia poured herself a glass of grapefruit juice and crooked her finger, inviting Jane to join her in the living room. “So, what was so important that you had to rush right over?”

Jane collapsed onto an armchair and explained about the breaking news.

“Heavens,” said Cordelia, nearly choking on the juice.

“Do you think he did it? Murdered that poor guy?”

“Not the Chester I know.”

“That’s just it,” said Jane. “Do we know him? I thought we did. Now I’m beginning to wonder.” She could see that Cordelia was resisting the idea. “I told you about the guys watching my house and my restaurant, right?”

“What guys?”

Jane gave her the down and dirty. “I think they’re watching Chess, not me. He’s mixed up in something bad—and he’s got me mixed up in it, too.”

“We have to talk to that boy, after which we must line up all our little gray cells and go a’sleuthing.”

Jane shook her head. “I’m done with that. Nolan’s looking into it for me.”

“Done with sleuthing?
Out
of the question.”

“Anyway,” said Jane, “I can’t find Chess. I tried his cell, left a couple of messages, but he hasn’t returned them. Do you think I should tell the police that he’s living in my third-floor apartment?”

“We know nothing about the man who died. What’s his name?”

“The newscaster said the cops hadn’t released it yet.”

“Janey, we’re a team. We’ve solved so many mysteries I can’t even count them all.”

“Remember what happened when we got involved with that murdered woman down in Iowa last fall. It nearly got Peter killed, and it caused a rift in our relationship I’m still trying to repair. No, I’m done with all that. I just want to keep my head down, run my restaurants, and lead a safe, quiet life.”

“You’d be bored stiff.
You
, dearheart, are an adrenaline junkie, just like I am.”

“I am not.”

“Are too.”

“We sound like two-year-olds.”

Cordelia tossed the rest of her juice back and set the glass down next to her. “Look, let’s do this much. Let’s go back to your house and wait for Chester to come home. We can interrogate him together. Good cop, bad cop.”

“I suppose we owe him a chance to explain.”

“Damn straight.”

“Maybe, if we both talk to him, we can get the real story.”

“I am a human lie detector, Janey. Never fear. Besides,” she added, rising and hanging her fringed sack purse over her shoulder, “when you’re down, you need your friends to stick by you.”

*   *   *

Irina crawled around on her hands and knees, scrubbing the wood floor with a hard bristle brush and Murphy’s Oil Soap. Dusty was a few yards away, strapped into his car seat. She’d purchased it before he was born, thinking that she’d need it. She never had—until last night. After the police left, Misty had driven Irina and Dustin back to the house where they both grew up. It felt familiar, and yet strangely foreign to be back. Then again, she had nowhere else to go.

Nothing was clean enough. Irina insisted that Misty go out first thing and buy an air purifier, a new portable crib, baby bottles, formula, diapers, and new sheets and baby blankets. The air purifier now resided in the corner of the bedroom, hissing out recycled and decontaminated air. The crib had yet to be assembled, yet to be rubbed down with disinfectant wipes. Dusty had fallen asleep, but after last night, he was restless, crying at even the smallest noise. The constant hiss of the purifier was a steady sound that muted the world around them. It was a godsend.