The Old Deep and Dark (18 page)

“Sit with us,” said Kit, nodding to an empty chair. “I thought that since Cordelia was here, she might take our minds off our problems. Why don't you tell us what's happening with you? Your new theater?”

“Ah, yes, the Thorn Lester Playhouse.”

“The new love of your life?” asked Kit.

“Yes, I believe that's true, although my new love seems to have a few warts.”

“Nothing too terrible, I hope,” said Beverly.

Both women gazed at her expectantly, waiting to be entertained.

“Actually—” What she was about to say had ghoulish aspects to it. Nevertheless, she knew it would become one of her favorite anecdotes. “Jane and I were in the basement of the theater a couple of days ago looking at a section that had once been used as a speakeasy back in the late twenties and early thirties. Archibald Van Arnam's doing some research for me on the history of the building. As I understand it, the two people who owned the place at the time were in some sort of financial trouble that caused a gangland shoot-out. They were, shall we say, rubbed out. You can still see the bullet holes in the old mahogany bar in the basement.”

“Leave it to you to buy a theater with a history,” said Beverly.

“There's more,” said Cordelia. “While we were looking around, we found this bricked-up section behind the bar. When we broke through it, which we had to do because … you know … inquiring minds … we found a skeleton. The skull had a bullet hole clean through the forehead.”

“Part of the gangland shooting?” asked Kit.

“At first, we weren't sure. The police came out and bagged the evidence. A ring, a billfold, the bones—and the skull. I found out this morning that the skeleton belonged to a man.”

“The plot thickens,” said Kit, giving Beverly an amused look.

“The guy's name was Chapman. Seems he went missing in the summer of 1980.”

“Chapman?” repeated Kit, eyes narrowing, more interested now than amused. “Do you know his first name?”

“William Edward. Apparently, he went by Eddy.”

“Eddy Chapman?” said Kit, sitting up straight.

“You knew him?”

“He was a banker? Early thirties?”

“That's the guy.” Switching her gaze to Beverly, Cordelia noted a similar change in expression.

“He was a regular at your theater back then,” said Beverly.

“I even dated him,” said Kit, looking more than a little flustered.

With all the stolen glances ricocheting between the two women, Cordelia felt like she was watching a ping-pong match. “You must have known he disappeared.”

“I thought … I mean, I assumed, when he stopped calling, that he'd lost interest.”

“He was married.”

“He was? Are you kidding me? He never said a word about it.”

Beverly reacted by folding her hands on the table and staring at them.

“I can't believe it,” said Kit. “And to think, all these years, he was buried there in the basement of that theater.” She shivered.

“A homicide,” said Cordelia. “His wife said he left for work one morning and never came home.” She waited for a reaction. When there was none, she said, segueing flawlessly into her sleuthing idiom, “If you knew him, maybe you've got some idea who might have wanted to hurt him.”

“No. No idea at all,” said Kit.

“You?” asked Cordelia, turning to Beverly.

“I only talked to the guy a couple of times. I can't even remember what he looked like.”

All three women were startled by the sound of a knock. “Excuse me,” said the burly young man in the western shirt. “The police are here and need to talk to you, Mrs. Deere.”

“Now what?” said Kit, pushing away from the table and following him out, with Beverly hot on her heels.

Cordelia hurried after them, skidding to a stop in the front hall. A tall, dark, reasonably attractive plain-clothes officer flanked by two uniforms, one a man and the other a woman, held up a piece of paper.

“Sergeant DePetro,” said Kit. “What's going on?”

“I have a warrant here for the arrest of Thomas Prior.”

“Tommy?” said Kit, looking startled.

The young man in the western shirt pointed to a hallway. “He's in the media room. I think he's asleep.”

“Show me,” ordered DePetro.

Everyone gathered in the doorway to watch DePetro and the officers surround a man slumped over a table, snoring.

“Mr. Prior?” said DePetro, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up.” When Tommy didn't move, DePetro nodded to one of the uniforms and said, “Wake him.”

Grabbing the back of Tommy's hair, the male patrolman yanked his head up.

“Hey, stop it,” said Tommy, pushing the man's hand away.

“Thomas Prior, I am arresting you for the murder of Jordan Deere.”

“Huh?” he said, looking around for a few upside down seconds. “What—”

As DePetro read him his rights, Tommy tried to stand. The male officer pulled his hands behind his back and handcuffed them.

“Why … why are you doing this?” demanded Tommy, swaying on his feet, his eyes frozen wide. “I never … you think I murdered Jordan? That's crazy.”

Kit leaned over to Cordelia and said, “Go call Ray Lawless. Tell him about the arrest. That it's an emergency.”

Backing out of the doorway, Cordelia returned to the kitchen. Grabbing a cordless off the island, she tapped in Ray's home number. “Come on, Perry Mason,” she whispered, drumming her red nails against the granite counter. “Answer the goddamned phone.”

 

19

It was going on midnight when Jane pulled into her driveway. As thoughts of Jordan Deere and his family tumbled around inside her mind, she did a double take. Backing up a few feet, she saw that Avi's car was parked in front of the house. She hadn't expected this and was hardly prepared for the conversation their problems demanded.

Entering through the back door, Jane heard the usual patter of dog paws as Mouse and Gimlet raced into the kitchen to greet her. She crouched down and pulled them into her arms. Gimlet did her happy dance, balancing on her two back feet. Mouse nosed Jane's hand, asking for a scratch. Finally, the welcome complete, Jane rose and grabbed a bottle of single malt off the counter, poured herself a drink, downed it in one neat gulp, and then walked out of the kitchen, through the dining room, into the living room.

She was still struggling with how best to handle things, when, instead of Avi, Julia stood up and turned toward her. She'd been sitting on the couch.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Jane.

“What a wonderfully warm welcome. It's nice to see you, too.”

“Where's Avi?”

Julia gave Jane a quizzical look. “She's in Chicago.”

“Then why is her car outside?”

“Ah,” said Julia. “I get it. You thought she'd come back to spend the night. No, sorry. It's just me. Avi left her car in the airport lot. I asked for her keys before I left, since I didn't want to take a cab when I got back to town. Poor Janey. You're disappointed.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Your neighbor, Evelyn Bratrude. She came over to let the dogs out about eight. Saw me sitting on the front steps. We're old friends, you know—from the years you and I were together. She let me in. Don't blame her. She didn't think she was doing anything wrong. She's always been such a help to you with your various varmints. I see you have a new dog. The curly little black one. Never thought of you as the poodle type.”

“She was a stray. Needed a home.”

“Sure,” said Julia, moving around the end of the couch to face Jane without any furniture between them. “You're good with strays.”

“You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Julia. I didn't think of you that way when we first met.”

“You're getting better at sparing with me. I like that.” She stepped closer, sniffed Jane's breath. “I see. I could be wrong, but I'd say that's scotch. Aren't you going to offer me one?”

“You're here for a reason. What is it?”

“Can't I merely stop by to say hi? See how you're doing? I thought we agreed to be friends. Lesbians are supposed to be good at that—not kicking the ex out the door forever just because the relationship fizzled.”

“That hardly covers what happened to us. Lies don't really qualify as communication.”

Julia smiled as she stepped around Jane and sauntered toward the kitchen.

Jane figured she'd have to play her game if she wanted to find out why she'd come. She also figured that Julia had hauled her usual fire bomb with her. Like Robert Duvall in
Apocalypse Now,
she loved the smell of napalm in the morning.

Standing in the kitchen doorway, Jane watched Julia pour herself a drink. She was still a beautiful woman. Golden hair. Slim and elegant in her gray pinstriped business suit and high heels.

Julia held up the bottle, nodding to the empty glass on the counter. “Another?”

“Why not?”

They took chairs on either side of the kitchen table. Jane was tired, but the booze had centered her. As the alcohol moved through her system, she felt her muscles loosen, her senses sharpen. She'd drunk enough scotch in her time to know that the last sensation was pure fiction.

“So,” said Jane, trying to move the conversation along. “Are you sleeping with Avi?”

“Whoa. Where did that come from?”

“If you don't want to start there, where do you want to start?”

Tipping the glass back and taking a sip, Julia said, “How about this: Our girl's doing really well.”

“Girl?”

“Oh, don't be such a tight-assed feminista.”

“
Our
girl?”

“We both have an interest in her. She's quite a find. I'm glad Ducasse & Ducasse got to her before the book was shopped around New York.”

“There's no way you're going to do for her what a major press would.”

“That's where you're wrong. We're going to make her a huge name. Just wait and see.”

“You act like it has nothing to do with her writing ability and everything to do with your promotional efforts.”

“No,” said Julia, fingering her silver necklace. “It's like any good relationship. Both sides have to do their part.”

Jane tossed back her second scotch. “Have we done enough foreplay now? Can we get to the point? Are you sleeping with her?”

Julia's smile was filled with amusement. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Answer the question.”

“You tell me.
Am
I sleeping with her?”

“Yes.”

“She's not who you think she is.”

“Meaning?”

“She's damaged goods. I don't know who did what to her. She told me some of the details, but I'm sure there's more. She hides who she really is—and she's good at it.”

“And what do you think you know?”

“For starters, she's full of rage. She holds it in most of the time, but if you know where to look, you can see it and, let me tell you, it's scary. She's unstable, Jane. Up and down. She's sexually promiscuous. I saw her come on to a waitress the other night. It was so blatant it was embarrassing. You're going to have a hard time living with that, trust me. She … disappears. I mean, right in front of you. She just goes away. She drinks too much. Maybe she's an alcoholic, I don't know. She's brilliant, sure. She can be funny as hell, and she's incredibly perceptive. But she's also a depressive, thinks the world has wronged her in some fundamental way.”

“And you love her.”

Leaning forward, resting her arms on the table, Julia said, “I don't love her, dummy. I love you.”

“And you're expressing your love for me by sleeping with my girlfriend.”

“I know this may seem difficult to fathom, but yes.”

Jane winced. Took a couple of ragged breaths. This was Julia at the top of her game, twisting a situation to fit her needs. It was as if she were a modern-day alchemist, turning leaden lies into golden truths. “Do me a favor. Love me a little less.”

“Not possible.”

“I want you to leave.”

“Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you.” Finishing her drink, she pushed away from the table. “I do love you. Nothing, and I mean
nothing,
in my world is ever simple—except that.”

 

20

Jane held her landline between her shoulder and ear as she pawed through the refrigerator looking for something to eat. After tossing and turning all night, at one point dreaming that Avi and Julia were beating each other bloody during a roller derby match at the foot of her bed, she felt a dull fatigue settle behind her eyes. It was going to be a long day.

“I was in high-sleuthing dudgeon when I arrived at Chez Deere last night,” said Cordelia, bubbling with energy on the other end of the line. “Only problem was, the single piece of info I ferreted out had to do with the body we found behind the wall at the theater.”

Jane wasn't sure she'd heard her correctly.

“Before the cops arrived to apprehend poor Tommy Prior, I'd been telling Kit and Beverly about the skeleton we found behind the wall. Turns out—and this has to be the Bermuda Triangle of coincidences—they both knew the guy. Is that wild or what? What are the odds?”

“A billion to one,” mumbled Jane. “Two billion.”

“Are you actually listening to me?”

“I think so.”

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing a little sleep wouldn't cure.”

“Jane,” she said, drawing the word out. “I know there's trouble in paradise with you and Avi.”

“Meaning what?”

“When you stop talking to me about your various girlfriends, there's always trouble.”

“Nice to know I'm so predictable.”