The Cruel Ever After (9 page)

If someone out there was after the bull, and Dial’s and Morgana Beck’s deaths were indeed connected, it appeared that nothing, not even murder, was too high a price to pay to get the ancient statue back. Poor Morgana had probably spent the last few moments of her life insisting that she knew nothing about it. Perhaps the murders had been committed by the much-talked-about foreign triumvirate hunting down looters from the Baghdad Museum. If Chess had to place a bet, he’d bet on them. Which led to another hurdle.

Irina was every bit as much of a target as her mother, or Dial, or Chess himself—but while Chess had found a place to hide, Irina was living in the open. How did he keep her safe? Should he urge her to go move out of her house? Find a hole to crawl in? If what she’d told him was true, her marriage was over, but hiding out with a baby in tow would be problematic. This, clearly, required more thought.

Another hurdle was the idiot blackmailer who seemed to think Chess had killed Dial. He had some ideas on how to handle that. He would follow through on them just as soon as he bought himself a set of wheels. That led to problem four. Money. Normally, it was problem one through ten.

Until he received the new fake passport, credit cards, and driver’s license from the forger in New Jersey, all he had to live on was the cash and traveler’s checks he’d brought with him. Subtracting what he’d spent last night on clothing, a shaving kit, a new suitcase, dinner, and cab fare, it came to about seventeen hundred dollars. Fortunately, he had an ace in the hole. He’d taken Dial’s wallet, which had netted him just under two thousand dollars. Also, he still had a key to Dial’s house. If he was able to screw up the courage to go back, he might be able to locate the PIN numbers for one or more of the old man’s credit cards. That would give him unlimited access to Dial’s credit for at least a couple of days.

The first order of business was to find a used car lot that sold wrecks for cash. On the way to the hotel, he’d spotted one on Lake Street south of Lyndale.

For the next few minutes, Chess repacked his suitcase. He lit another smoke as he worked to fold everything neatly inside. His laptop, as well as some ancient coins, a few rings, and two Babylonian cylinder seals, also stolen from the museum in Iraq, were what had driven him to take the risk of coming back to the hotel. But now that he was here, he was glad to retrieve all his belongings.

One other item on Chess’s to-do list was to find a gift for Jane’s father. Last night, as Jane was helping him make up the bed in the third-floor apartment, she had invited him to tonight’s party. She’d been so helpful, so concerned that Chess had everything he needed. She brought up fresh ground coffee, making sure the coffeepot worked. She also stocked the cupboard with sugar, jam, bread, and a fifth of good bourbon. Into the refrigerator went cream for his morning coffee, orange juice, eggs, butter, and a six-pack of beer. She tried out the air conditioner to make sure it would cool him should he need it. He couldn’t remember when his heart had been so warmed. Rarely did anyone ever give him anything without expecting something in return. Jane and Cordelia were both like that. They gave because they liked to give, and they liked him, for no other reason than friendship.

Chess was looking forward to the party. He needed a break from all the stress he’d been under, and he was curious to meet Jane’s friends and family. The invitation, however, came with one proviso. Jane would introduce him as an old friend. The details of their true connection must remain hidden.

Chess had, of course, agreed. Still, the idea of making every jaw in the room drop was a tantalizing tableau.

“What should I get my father-in-law for his birthday?” whispered Chess.

He had so many trinkets. Then again, a quarter-million-dollar cylinder seal did seem a bit much.

10

Irina found a parking spot on Grand Avenue in front of the gallery but couldn’t bring herself to go in. She sat in her car and talked on her cell.

“Where are you?” she asked, resting her elbow on the open window and leaning her head against her hand.

“Eating breakfast in a café just down the street from the Hyatt,” said Chess.

In the background, she could hear voices, laughter. “I thought you weren’t going back there.”

“I had to. But don’t worry. Nobody recognized me. I used to do a lot of theater, so I’m good at disguise. Now, tell me everything that happened yesterday after I took off. Don’t leave anything out.”

The yellow and black crime scene tape crisscrossing the front and back doors of the gallery was an image that would stay with Irina for the rest of her life. Because the police search of the main floor was complete, Irina had been given permission to start the cleanup, but the second floor was off-limits. The gallery was to remain closed to the public until the detective in charge of the case was satisfied the scene had yielded up all its secrets.

“You talked to the police, right?” said Chess. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you.”

Irina had watched stoically as her mother’s body had been zipped into a body bag and removed from the building to a waiting van. After the medical examiner left, she’d been interrogated by a middle-aged homicide cop, Kevin Lathrup. She tried to get through it, but the longer they talked, the more frantic she became.

“The whole thing was brutal,” she said, covering her eyes. “I couldn’t tell them the truth, that Mom was killed because of me.”

“Stop saying that. We don’t know what happened.”

A cavernous pit of guilt had cracked open beneath her. “I can’t seem to catch my breath.”

“Just take it easy.”

“I need you.”

“I know, baby, but you’ve got to be strong. We can’t be seen together.”

Forcing herself to sit up straight, she looked across the street, mesmerized by the sight of a woman pushing a toddler in a stroller.

“Irina?”

“What?”

“Tell me more about what happened yesterday.”

She closed her eyes. “The cop called my husband to come pick me up. Guess he thought I was too upset to drive.”

“Did you tell your sister about—”

“She was babysitting at the house. God, I wanted a glass of wine so badly, but I couldn’t, not in front of her.”

“How did she take it?”

“With amazing stoicism.”

“Is she always pretty stoic?”

“Mom and Misty weren’t close.” Irina gazed up at the second-floor turret, her mother’s office. “I invited her to spend the night. I didn’t think she should be alone. Steve didn’t have the guts to act annoyed, not after what had just happened, but he was. He called a friend and then left. He said he wanted to go bring my car back home.”

“At least that showed some concern.”

“Concern, yeah. That’s Steve.” The anger she felt toward her husband centered her, made her feel more in control. It was only momentary. “I’m a mess.”

“No you’re not,” said Chess. “You’re just grieving. It’s natural. Don’t be so hard on yourself. What are your plans for the day?”

“I’m sitting outside the gallery. I had to come. I don’t know what I’m going to do once I get inside, I just had to get out of the house. Can’t we find
someplace
safe, where we can see each other?”

“Let me think about it. I’ll call you later in the day. Everything’s going to be all right, Irina. Just keep repeating that. I know this may seem crass, but you could use some of your free time to start calling your business contacts. The sooner we sell the bull, the sooner we can be together.”

“I’ve started making a list.”

“If there’s any way I can help, let me know.”

She remained in her car for a few more minutes, summoning up her courage, wondering how this would all turn out. Before leaving the house, she’d done something rash. She’d taken Steve’s key ring and had gone into his locked gun cabinet, removing one of the pistols. A few years back, he’d shown her how to remove the clip, how to hold it with both hands when she fired, how to position her feet. He wanted to take her to a firing range, teach her to shoot, but she refused. Guns were ugly and heavy and dangerous. Guns and violence were his life, not hers. Now she wished she’d learned.

She’d looked the gun over, practiced dropping the clip into her palm, pressing it back into the handle. Steve always kept his guns loaded, but she had to make sure. When she left the house, the pistol was hidden in her purse, where it would remain. Walking up the steps to the front door of the gallery, she wondered if she’d ever feel safe again.

The sign in the window said
CLOSED.

It struck her for the first time that she was now the owner. According to her mother’s living trust, Misty would get a cash settlement, but the gallery was hers. Perhaps she and Chess could run it together. Why not? They could continue to travel. Chess would never be happy living in one place. They could spend part of the year in Istanbul and the rest of the time in Minnesota. She would fire Majid and hire someone new to manage the place. She was getting ahead of herself and knew it. Chess said he loved her, but that didn’t mean he wanted to get married, or spend the rest of his life with her. Still, she needed a way out of her present nightmare, even if it was only in her mind.

Pressing the key into the front lock, Irina felt tears well again. She stood up straight, squared her shoulders, and went inside.

Across the room, Majid sat perched on a stool behind the main counter, staring into space. “Hi,” he said, so softly she almost missed it. The only part of him that moved as she walked toward him was his eyes. They followed her, his face expressionless.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, setting her purse next to the cash register. “You got my phone message?”

He didn’t respond.

“Majid?”

“I got it,” he said, lifting a mug of tea to his lips.

“That’s all you’ve got to say?” For just an instant, his eyes seemed to challenge her. She’d never seen him behave like that before. Then again, she supposed everybody dealt with death differently.

She hadn’t been able to reach him last night. She felt bad not being able to tell him what had happened to her mother in person, but didn’t want him to hear about it on the nightly news. She finally decided to leave a message on his answering machine. He hadn’t called back, as she’d expected he would.

Twisting the mug around in his hands, he said, “I’m sorry, Irina. She was a special woman.”

The offer of sympathy threatened her hard-won composure. “Thanks,” she said, opening her purse and removing a tissue.

With his coffee-colored skin, long dark lashes, and thick black hair, Majid looked more Iranian than American, although his accent was pure Texan.

“I own the gallery now,” she said.

Contempt rose in his eyes. He’d never allowed himself to show it so clearly before. Aiming his hard gaze out the front windows, he said, “Do the police have any idea who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“I have a theory.”

A shiver ran down her back. “You do?”

“Somebody was obviously looking for something. A cop came to my apartment this morning, wanted to ask me some questions. I told him I thought it was a robbery gone bad. The killer had to be looking for one of two things: either an artifact worth a whole hell of a lot, or something with deep historical significance.”

“That’s all we sell,” she said irritably.

“No, you’re missing my point. I think we might have bought something illegal. Those artifacts stolen from the Baghdad Museum are all antiquities dealers are talking about these days.”

“Don’t you think you’re overstating it just a bit?”

“No.”

She moved to the end of the counter, her body vibrating like an idling car. Was it just a wild guess, or did he know more than he was letting on?

“You’ve heard about that cabal, right? The ones going around shooting people up like cowboys in white hats, searching for what rightfully belongs to the Iraqi people.”

“I don’t think that’s for real. It just makes a good story.”

“No, it’s real. Those folks are on a mission. My uncle in Espahan wrote to me about them.”

Majid had spent a month in Espahan, the town in central Iran where his uncle lived, two summers ago. When he returned, Irina had detected a subtle difference in him. He seemed more sensitive about political issues, and he was even more dismissive than usual of her opinions and suggestions regarding the gallery. Never, of course, around her mom. He was too clever for that. She’d mentioned the change to her mom once, but Morgana had simply brushed it off, saying it was just Irina’s imagination.

“The cop wanted to know where I was on Wednesday night.
Me
. As if I had anything to do with Morgana’s death.”

“Where were you?”

He turned to look at her. “At home. Studying. You knew I’m learning to speak Farsi, right?”

“Were you alone?”

“Of course I was alone.”

Irina spied a pair of mirrored aviator shades resting on the far side of the cash register. She nodded to them and said, “Are those yours?”

He picked them up, looked them over. “Never seen them before.”

They looked exactly like the ones Steve wore, but since he refused to set foot in the gallery, they had to belong to a customer, or one of the police officers. The style wasn’t all that unusual.

“How long before the cops will allow us to open up?”

She found the remark insensitive. “I have no idea.” She had the urge to tell him right then and there that he was fired, but reason prevailed. She needed his help to reorganize the displays and to get an idea of how much they’d lost.

“Do you want me to stick around?” he asked, his voice quiet, his tone flat.

“No need.”

“Then I’ll take off. Call me when you want to start the cleanup.”

He stopped when he got to the front door and turned to face her. “You may not believe this when all is said and done, but I’m not your enemy, Irina. I never meant you any harm.”

She found the comment unsettling. Standing rigidly behind the counter, she held her breath until the front door clicked softly behind him and he was gone.

11

Hattie slumped at the kitchen table, scowling at her tuna sandwich.