The Old Deep and Dark (29 page)

“How noble,” said Tommy under his breath.

Kit saw movement out of the corner of her eye. When she looked over at the door, she saw Chloe standing still as a rock, staring wide eyed at the TV.

“Oh, honey,” said Kit, standing up to face her.

“It will all come out now, won't it,” she said, her voice oddly flat. “The girl in the book,
me,
everyone will know how utterly dysfunctional I am.”

“Chloe, that was years ago. You're not the same person.”

“The shoplifting. The suicide attempts. The diagnosis. The mental hospital. Anorexia. Relapses. I don't know what that man on TV thought he was saying, but Dad didn't novelize
me.
” Turning her eyes on Kit, she screamed,
“Did he.”

“Honey—”

“Stop calling me that. You're useless, you know that. Totally and utterly useless.” She turned and bolted toward her bedroom.

“Let me go after her,” said Tommy, pushing out of his chair. “Maybe she'll listen to me.”

“But what will you say?” asked Kit.

“I have no freakin' idea.”

Kit let him go. There was a chance Chloe would talk to him, and no chance at all Chloe would talk to her. The same deep sense of guilt that would occasionally sneak up on her throughout her married life, the one that could easily overwhelm her with the feeling that she was a terrible mother, was about to swallow her once again. She could never seem to forget what her own mother had told her: “Children come first. Then comes Daddy. Mom comes last. That's the way it should be, the way you will raise your own kids, not just because I'm telling you to, but because it's the way you'll want it to be. It's a natural impulse. You'll see, when you're a mommy yourself.”

But that hadn't been the way Kit had lived her life. She often put herself, the needs of her career, her desire for romance and adventure, before the needs of her children and husband. Feminists would support her decisions, she used to tell herself. Her actions were grounded in the need for women to take some of their own power back. She saw friends, other women, allowing themselves a little selfishness. Men were given a pass when it came to work. Why shouldn't she be given the same break? It wasn't fair. And yet, no matter how hard she tried to turn off the tape inside her head, she couldn't.

If Kit
had
put her kids first, if she'd spent more time with Chloe and Booker, maybe they would have been happier children, become more balanced, more content with their lives. Jordan never seemed to second-guess himself. If he had things to do, places to go, he went. She never saw him agonizing over his role as a father. So why did she feel such guilt? Was she, in fact, a heartless monster, an utter failure as a mother, the reason her children were so screwed up? She fought against that conclusion, refused to believe it, and yet that little voice inside her head wouldn't go away. Surely she had the right to take some time for herself. Surely Chloe's problems weren't all her fault. Surely, if a woman married and acquired a husband and children, she didn't automatically, by her very nature, become an indentured servant. She had a solid political and philosophical basis for her decisions, and still … she feared those questions as much as she did the answers.

 

33

Jane wiped brick dust off her face as she returned to her office at the theater. She'd spent the last hour and a half going over the two crime scenes in the basement. Only one more to go. As she'd expected, the police had done a good job of sifting through what material there was, which meant she'd found nothing.

Dropping down heavily on her desk chair, she popped the top on a cold Red Bull and took a long sip.

“What's that in your hair?” came Cordelia's voice.

Jane looked up to find her friend standing in the doorway.

“Brick dust. I'm covered in it.”

“Lovely.” Cordelia was wearing what looked like a 1950s prom gown—a frothy, strapless coral concoction with a full skirt and an attached netted wrap. “I spoke to Daniel Woodson. He'll be here around three.”

“I can't believe you actually got hold of him.”

“It is axiomatic that when people see the name Cordelia Thorn pop up on their cell phones, they
take
the call.”

“If I haven't mentioned this before, I'm glad you know everyone in town.”

“Not everyone,” she replied, with fake modesty. “But almost.”

“Lovely dress.”

“Oh, do you like it?” She twirled into the room. “I was feeling exuberantly femme this morning. I love the fabric. Not so sure about the color. I think it makes my skin look a little green. And,” she added, lowering her voice, “as we all know, it's not easy being green.”

“Funny. Not to change the subject, but do you hear water running? It's like someone turned on a faucet and forgot to turn it off.”

“Ah, Gilbert and Hilda are playing tricks on
you
today. I'm usually their target of choice.”

Jane refused to believe ghosts were the cause of the noise. “I think you may have a plumbing problem.”

“I do, dearheart. It's called Gilbert and Hilda King.”

“Since you're here, why don't you sit for a minute. I have a question.”

“And I likely have the answer.” She sat down on the folding chair facing Jane.

“It's about Avi.”

“Of course it is. What is it this time?”

“Are you suggesting that Avi constantly presents me with problems?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this one is a whopper.”

“I shall brace myself.”

“She wants to have a baby.”

Cordelia shrieked, then hooted.

Jane waited for more. “That's all you've got to say?”

“I thought my response was quite eloquent.”

“You think it's a bad idea.”

“Duh.”

“Why?”

“
Why?
How does she intend to support this child? Oh, I see. That's your job.”

“No, she thinks she'll make good money as a writer. She'll hire a nanny.”

Another shriek. “Does that woman live on the same planet that we do? Okay. Let's take this slowly, one question at a time. Are you on board with this? I mean, are you even considering signing on with Avi and child?”

Jane shook her head. “But what worries me is that, whether or not I'm part of the equation, she's still full steam ahead. She believes firmly that a child will fill a void in her life that nothing else can.”

“I'm not going to argue how much the love of a child can bring to your life, but it's not for the faint of heart, for heavy drinkers, or for starving artists—not if your primary goal is the happiness and safety of the kid. If you start out thinking that the kid is there to do something for
you
 … you're already ass backwards. Feel free to quote me.”

“So give me some advice. If it were you, what would you say to her?”

“One little phrase: ‘Good-bye and good luck.'” Looking as if she wasn't completely sure that Jane was convinced, she added, “Listen to Auntie Cordelia. It is
not
your responsibility in life to make everyone happy.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Earth to Jane? If you want to be nice, tell her it's her dream, not yours, and you want no part of it. And then run. Fast. Now.” She rose regally from the chair. “I must attend to other matters. As a parting comment, let me just say this: Refuse to darken the door of any sperm bank and tell Avi to do the same.”

Jane muttered to herself as she finished her Red Bull, nursing it, not really wanting to brave the third crime scene, but knowing she couldn't leave loose ends. She also needed to get back to her office in time to clean herself up a little before Woodson arrived. Slinging a messenger bag over her shoulder, she took the elevator up to the third floor. As she came through the theater on her way backstage, she saw that the new curtain was about to be installed.

Cordelia and Octavia had argued, of course, about the color. Octavia wanted a bright red-orange. Cordelia insisted on a wine red or, failing that, a rich royal blue. Since they were at an impasse, and Jane was the third person on the board—the tiebreaker—she chose the color she liked best, the blue. She was glad to see that it went so beautifully with the gilded ceiling, the chandeliers, and the lovely pastel colors on the plaster carvings around the stage.

Pushing through a curtain, she ducked backstage and walked briskly to the dressing room along the rear wall. Once inside, she took out a flashlight and slipped sideways through the opening in the bookcase, making her way carefully down the wooden stairs to the murder room. Washing the flashlight beam over the interior, she saw that the trunk had been removed. She set her bag down, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and began her search. The walls came first. She felt ridiculously Sherlock Holmesian when she used a magnifying glass, but it remained a good tool, even if it was low tech.

Once again, she understood that it was unlikely she'd find anything. After examining all four walls, she was about to get down on her hands and knees to inspect the floor when she heard the sound of footsteps. Backing up, she hit the wall as the beam of a flashlight hit her square in the eyes, blinding her.

Twisting her head away, she demanded, “Who's there?”

“It's just me,” came a familiar voice. Red turned the flashlight on his face, which helped her identify him, but also made him look like a ghoul. “What are you doing in here?” he asked mildly.

“Building an intercontinental ballistic missile,” said Jane, trying to dislodge her heart from her throat. “You scared me.” Didn't this guy have anything else to do but prowl around?

“You need a hand with anything?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Okay. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” With that, he walked off. Moments later, she heard a door close. And then the unmistakable sound of a running faucet started up again. Why couldn't Cordelia have bought herself a nice, new, unhaunted theater somewhere in the boring burbs?

Easing down on all fours, Jane began running her flashlight beam across the cracks in the floorboards. She was almost done when she found something odd. Scooting over to her messenger bag, she removed a pair of tweezers, then moved back and carefully eased a folded piece of paper out of the crack. Holding the flashlight in her mouth, she opened it. When she saw what it was, she felt a pure adrenaline rush.

It took a few more seconds for the dread to set in.

*   *   *

“That's … quite a costume,” said Daniel Woodson, smiling at Cordelia. “You always seem to find the most … unusual … clothing. Makes me feel like I'm at my senior prom. I think my palms are even sweating.” He'd taken a seat on the uncomfortable Savonarola chair in Cordelia's office. “You know, this feels good. I don't think I've even cracked a smile all week.”

Jane, who was half sitting, half leaning against a red lacquered trunk, thanked Woodson for coming. In person, he looked years younger than he had on TV. She asked him what he did for a living—what the “Dr.” in front of his name meant.

“I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon,” he said.

“You're a heart doctor,” said Cordelia. “One of the premier heart doctors in the great state of Minnesota.”

“At the moment, I'm hiding out,” he added. “After that press conference this morning, the phone at my office has been ringing off the hook. Same with my cell. I can't go home because my house is surrounded by camera crews and reporters. I keep thinking this is all a dream and that I'm going to wake up.”

Jane gave him a few seconds. “Are you okay with answering a few questions?”

“Sure, that's why I'm here. If you're trying to figure out what's going on, I want to help.”

“Where did you meet Jordan?” asked Jane.

“At a party. Since we both love golf, we got to talking. A few days later, he called and we played nine holes. And then we had dinner. I guess you could say that our relationship took off from there.”

“Cookies?” said Cordelia brightly, waving her hand over the plate of Russian tea cakes on her desk.

“Um, no thanks,” said Woodson. “I don't have much of an appetite.”

“This may not be a cookie kind of conversation,” said Jane.

“Really?” murmured Cordelia, fingering the glass beads at her throat as she glanced longingly at the plate.

“Did Jordan ever talk about his family?” asked Jane.

“Oh, sure, constantly. For want of a better term, he called them his ‘circle,' since they weren't all, strictly speaking, related.”

When Cordelia thought nobody was looking, she inched the cookie plate closer and tapped one off into her lap. Palming it, she lifted it to her lips and took a nibble, smiling innocently until she saw Jane watching her.

“From what you said this morning,” continued Jane, “it seemed to me that you believe one of them is responsible for his murder.”

“I do.”

“Who's at the top of the list?”

“Well, at first, I assumed it had to be Tommy Prior. He's been so sullen, so angry with Jordan, and so erratic because of the drinking. I thought he'd finally snapped. I figured that he knew Jordan was seeing someone and that it was serious, so he bought himself a gun and made his plans.”

“But you've changed your mind?” asked Cordelia, wiping a telltale crumb off the side of her mouth.

He drew in a breath. “As I said before, I'm not a fan of DePetro, but in this instance, it seems to me that Kit did have the most compelling motive.”

“The divorce,” said Jane.

“Not just the divorce, but everything that came along with it.”

“Such as?”

“Jordan's need to be honest with his fans about who he was, which meant Kit's willingness to participate in Jordan's sham life would've come out. And then, tangentially, her sex life would be out there on the table, fodder for tabloids. Think about it. All the fraudulent interviews. The fake husband-and-wife photographs. I don't care how she tries to shape-shift it, those would be huge admissions for a woman who's been out there peddling the ‘Deere family values' for years.”