The Old Deep and Dark (27 page)

“Go bring Mouse in,” said Avi. “The more the merrier. Besides, with him in the room, maybe you won't yell quite as loud.”

“I wasn't planning on yelling.”

“Well, whatever pain you intend to inflict, I deserve it.”

Avi's eyes seemed glazed. Jane wondered how much she'd had to drink. She went back out to the car, clipped Mouse's leash to his collar, then walked him back inside, fearing that the evening might not end well.

“Hey, boy,” said Avi, crouching down and giving him an extravagant rub. In return, Mouse licked her face and hands, finally sitting down and lifting a paw. “You're my man,” she said, eyes glistening. “Jane, look, I can't wait around for the other shoe to drop. You know what happened between Julia and me. I could say I was sorry, but what does that accomplish?”

“I guess, if nothing else, it would make me think you're sorry.”

“Ha. Funny.” She got up, and without looking at Jane, disappeared into the kitchen. “It didn't mean anything,” she called. “Just sex. I don't have any feelings for her, other than gratitude. And maybe I feel a little sorry for her. She's lonely.”

“So this was a mercy fuck?” said Jane, standing in the doorway, watching Avi remove the roasting pan from the oven.

“You don't usually use that kind of language.”

“I'm not usually this angry.”

“Okay. I knew it,” said Avi, cursing after she burned her hand pulling off the roaster cover. She rushed to the sink and turned on the water. “Stupid to think you can cook a meal for a professional chef.”

“Stop spinning,” said Jane, moving up to her and turning her around.

“Are we over?” asked Avi.

“Only if you want us to be.”

“I thought … I mean, I came back early because … because I was thinking … God, I'm a writer and I can't even manage a coherent sentence.”

“I wish I understood you better,” said Jane. “I'm not sure we've ever had a conversation about being exclusive, not dating other people. It's possible that I just assumed it because it's what I wanted. I've never hidden the fact that I love you, though I've never been entirely sure how you feel.”

Avi pulled away and began to dish up the plates of food. “I don't like drama, Jane. Confrontations. You know that.”

“You'd rather we forget what happened and just move on.”

“Yes,” she said, trying to look brisk and purposeful as she carried the filled plates out to the dining room table. “If you forgive me, I would. Wine?” she asked, holding up a bottle of Pinot Noir.

“No thanks.”

They sat down and began to eat in silence.

How pleasant, thought Jane. The idea of being anywhere but there suddenly appealed. “This is good,” she said, making a stab at conversation.

Avi nodded. And then she burst into tears, covering her face with a napkin. “This is such a friggin' mess,” she said, her voice a rasp. “I'm not a coldhearted bitch. I'm not. I am sorry. I don't know what to do, how to make you see that I do care about you.”

“Why don't you ever use the word ‘love'?”

“What?”

“Well, I mean you've used it—in reference to me—but rarely.”

Her lips parted, though she said nothing. Finally, after taking a sip of wine, she said, “I don't trust the word.”

“Or the emotion.”

“I've loved more than a few women in my time, or thought I had. One, I was totally head over heels for.”

“Sarah.”

“I moved us across the country, at my own expense, to make it work with her. I took care of her baby while she started that new job. And when Gracie was old enough to go to school, when Sarah no longer needed my services, she showed me the door.”

Avi had ended up in Minneapolis, working at a bar downtown. That's when she and Jane had first met.

“She never loved me. But boy, she sure could toss out the word when necessary to keep me happy.”

Jane's eyes rose to the water-stained ceiling. She'd heard all this before, more than once, and it was starting to feel old.

“Look, Jane, you need to understand something about me. I create people for my stories. It's what I love most about writing. But I also do it in my life. I meet someone and right away I start spinning a tale about who they are. It may have nothing to do with reality. That's a problem. I told you once, I fall in love too easily. It's because I construct the person I want to be with. Doesn't matter who they really are. Except, it eventually does matter, when my fiction stops working.”

“Did you do that with me?”

“I'm trying not to.”

“I'm not Sarah,” said Jane.

“You don't know how happy that makes me.”

At least they could agree on that.

“Since we're having a serious conversation, maybe this is a good time to tell you about an idea I've been kicking around for a while. You're going to be surprised, or possibly even a little bewildered at first. I'm hoping you'll climb on board, because it will affect our relationship in an important—and I believe—an amazing way.”

Jane had little hope that the minimal amount of food she'd eaten would digest any time during the next century. Avi might as well pile it on. “Okay.”

“You know how strongly I bonded with Gracie, how devastated I was to be cut out of her life. Well, here's my idea. I want a baby. I believe that's what's been missing in my life. What do you say? Will you raise a child with me?”

Jane was rarely at a loss for words, but this was one of those times.

“I know, I know,” said Avi. “It's not what you were expecting.”

“No,” was all Jane could squeak out.

“Will you think about it?”

“Now? You want to have a baby right away?”

“More than anything.”

Folding her napkin with great care in an effort to stave off the volcanic eruption gathering steam inside her, Jane said, “Let's think about this. Your first book will be published sometime next spring. Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't most authors go on tour? I assume a pregnancy would make that much more difficult. And down the road, how do you expect to find the time to write if you have a baby around who requires your constant attention?”

“I'm not saying there won't be hurdles. But that's where you come in.”

“Avi, I'm already working two jobs, both of which I adore. I have no desire to change any of that.”

“But see, I'll have more money now that I'm a published author. Granted, I've only been given a small advance for this book, but it will grow. Eventually, we'll be able to afford a nanny. Your house would be a perfect place to raise a child. I'm only thirty-seven. That's not too old to conceive a baby by today's standards.”

“You're going to stop drinking?”

“What? Well, I mean, I know this may take sacrifice.”

“
Can
you stop drinking?” Jane's cell phone rang. Retrieving it from the back pocket of her jeans, she saw that it was Cordelia. Feeling an acute need to step away from the Twilight Zone for a few seconds, she said, “I need to take this.” She rose from her chair and crossed into the living room. Mouse was asleep on the couch, so she eased down next to him. “Hi,” she said.

“I'm calling with an update,” came Cordelia's voice. “Am I catching you at a bad time?”

“Not at all.” Jane glanced into the dining room just in time to see Avi pour herself another glass of wine. “What's up?”

“I've got the name of the woman the police found behind the wall last night. It's Decca Foster.”

“Doesn't ring any bells.”

“Did for me. She was a reporter for
City Pages
back in the day. Since I had some free time, I used my awesome sleuthing skills to do a little research. Turns out, she was writing an investigative piece on the Deere family when she suddenly dropped out of sight.”

“Wow.”

“I ran into Red in the hallway a little while ago. Since you said he remembered so much about Stanislaw Melcer, I asked him about Decca. He said that she tried to interview him one afternoon while he was painting one of the offices on the second floor. He felt like she was trying to pull together a gossip piece, so he pretty much refused to cooperate. He also mentioned that last time he saw her, she was with Archibald Van Arnam. He had his arm around her and they were walking out the front doors. He said they looked very cozy. The plot thickens, does it not?”

“It sure does,” said Jane. “Anything more on the ballistics?”

“Oh, right. That's the other big news. Turns out they found evidence that all three victims were shot with the same gun. Here, let me read you what the officer said.” She paused. “Okay. Not that this means much to me, but it might to you. The gun was a nine millimeter, possibly a M973, made by IMBEL. Used a nine-by-nineteen parabellum cartridge. It's a Brazilian army pistol. Nine rounds in the magazine. Single action. Short recoil, semiautomatic. Black. It's rare.”

“Can you text me that? Or just text it to my dad? He'll want to feed those specs to DePetro.”

“Will do. Hey, where are you?”

“I'm at Avi's apartment. We just finished dinner.”

“Everything satisfactory in paradise?”

“Just peachy.”

“Sounds like we should talk. Stop by the Old Deep and Dark tomorrow. Out.”

Jane returned to the dining room. The wine bottle was empty.

“I can tell you're not convinced a child is a good idea,” said Avi.

“You're right.”

“You've never wanted a child?”

“I thought about it when I was in my twenties,” said Jane, sitting back down. “When Christine and I were first together. But no, neither one of us wanted a child. And believe me, if I didn't want one when I was young, I certainly don't want to take that on at my age.”

“Age has nothing to do with it.”

“For me it does. And remember, you're a writer, Avi, one who's just starting out.”

“People can be more than one thing.”

It was obvious she'd made up her mind, and equally obvious that Jane wasn't going to be persuaded. “So, we're at an impasse.”

Avi pointed to the clock on the buffet.

It was ten to nine. The groomer was at least twenty minutes away. “I've got to run,” said Jane, jumping up and looking around for Mouse's leash.

“To be continued,” said Avi.

 

31

That night, Archibald took a cab to the police station in Minnetonka. It was a long way from his home in Prospect Park, a historic section of Minneapolis, where many professors lived. The ride cost him an arm and a leg, though it was better than allowing his car, a silver Audi Q5, to get rained and sleeted on. It was setting up to be a beast of an evening.

As he entered the station, he stepped up to a counter and waited for the uniformed officer behind it to finish his phone call. The man looked bored.

“Help you?” asked the cop, after placing the receiver back in its cradle.

“I need to talk to Neil DePetro.”

“Not here.”

“This is a matter of some urgency.”

He pulled out a clipboard and studied it. “He's on tomorrow. Any time after eight in the morning.”

“But I need to talk to him
now.
Call him and tell him that Archibald Van Arnam is here and needs to speak with him right away.”

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“I'd rather speak to Sergeant DePetro in private.”

“If you expect me to call him and interrupt his evening, you're going to have to give me a reason.”

With his lips twisting in annoyance, Archibald said, “I've come to turn myself in. I'm the man who murdered Jordan Deere last Sunday morning.”

The cop eyed him. “You're … turning yourself in?”

“That's correct.”

“Uh-huh. Okaaay. Why don't you have a seat over there.” He pointed to a series of chairs. “I'll give the sergeant a ring, see what he wants to do.”

“Thank you.” Archibald walked over and sat down. There were a few magazines on offer, though they all looked greasy and unappealing.

Twenty-two minutes later, DePetro arrived wearing jeans, a heavy red wool shirt, a long black raincoat, and a baseball cap. “Mr. Van Arnam,” he said, motioning for Archibald to follow him into a back hallway.

In less than a minute, Archibald found himself in a small interrogation room, sitting at a round white laminate table. The room smelled like sweat and dirty gym socks. When DePetro sat down across from him, Archibald said, “You could use an air freshener in here.”

“I'll make a note of it. Now, I'm told you're here to confess. You murdered Jordan Deere.”

“That's right.”

Drumming his fingers on the table, he looked at the digital recorder. “Oh, hell,” he said, switching it on. “It's nine thirty, Wednesday night, October twenty-eighth. With me is Archibald Van Arnam. Mr. Van Arnam, could you take me through last Sunday morning?”

Archibald unbuttoned his sport coat and tried to relax. “It's common knowledge that Jordan Deere liked to do his morning run at Bayview Park. I confirmed this by following him there—”

“When was that?”

“Maybe a week ago.”

“What do you mean, you
followed
him?”

“I … parked in the lot and waited for him to arrive, taking care to make sure he didn't see me. And then I followed him, at a distance, to see what route he took.” Archibald tried hard not to stare at DePetro's enormous, almost grotesque, Adam's apple. He'd noted it the first time they'd met—at Kit's house last Sunday.

“You're a runner?”

“On occasion.”

DePetro's gaze dropped to Archibald's big gut. “Uh-huh. How far did you run that morning?”

“A mile, maybe a little more.”