The Old Deep and Dark (31 page)

“I suppose I could call Avi,” she said to her dogs. Watching Mouse's reaction, she said, “Yeah, I agree. Not a good idea.” She didn't want to talk to Avi, which was a real switch. Something besides the logs in the fireplace had shifted.

When the doorbell rang, Jane got up and set the popcorn bowl on a table by the windows. She looked through the peephole and saw her father outside.

“Come in,” she said, helping him off with his soggy raincoat and hat and then giving him a long, extra-strong hug.

“That was nice. Why do I rate?”

“I'm just glad to see you.”

Rubbing his hands together, he said, “It's freezing out there. Mark my words. We'll have snow before morning.”

“I've got a fire going.”

“I can smell it,” he said, slipping off his wet shoes. “What a night.”

“Would you like something hot to drink?”

“You know, honey, after the day I've had, I could really use a whiskey.”

As he bent down to greet the dogs, Jane went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Jameson and two shot glasses.

Ray stood by the fire for a few minutes, warming his hands. “I got your messages while I was at the hospital. I thought, instead of calling, I'd stop by instead.”

“Why were you at a hospital?” She sat down on the couch and poured them each a shot.

Lifting the glass from her hand, Ray said, “Chloe Deere tried to commit suicide this afternoon.”

“Oh, God. Is she okay?”

“Thankfully, Booker found her not long after she'd swallowed the pills. Yes, it looks like she'll be fine. Kit, on the other hand, completely came apart. She blames herself—and Jordan. I can't say that I disagree.” He sat down on the rocking chair next to the hearth. “My but this fire feels good on a cold night. Hate to think about going out again.”

“Don't,” said Jane. “Stay here tonight.”

“Right. You want me to hide until all the crazies who leave notes in my mailbox fade away.”

“Listen, Dad. I found something this afternoon. I want you to see it.” She rose and went back to her study, returning with a plastic bag and a pair of latex gloves. Slipping the gloves on, she removed the page from the bag and held it up so her father could see it.

“What is it?”

“You see the letter in the center of the page?”

“‘S.' Yes, I see it.”

“I found this at the theater this afternoon—between the floorboards in the room where Stanislaw Melcer was buried.” She waited for him to make the connection. “Melcer must have had it with him when he was murdered. Somehow, the murderer didn't see it and it worked its way between the floorboards.”

“Are you suggesting the notes I've been receiving are linked to that?”

She explained what she'd learned from Daniel Woodson about the notes Jordan had been receiving before his death.

“You talked to Woodson?”

“This afternoon.”

“Wow, you're quick.”

“I had to be, because I think we're running out of time. The day before Jordan was murdered, he received a note that said ‘J.' The first letter of his name. I'm guessing it was the same with Melcer, Chapman, and Foster. I believe the killer was saying their time was up. Since you've been receiving the same kind of note, I think you're his next target.”

Ray downed the Jameson. “Seems rather silly. I mean, why me?”

“Why any of them?” said Jane. “I see a connection between Jordan's death and what he was about to do. But as for the other three homicides, I'm in the dark. All I know is that the Deere family is at the center of it. Since you're representing Kit, you've apparently made yourself a target.” She paused to let her words sink in. “When did you receive the last note?”

“Today. This morning before I left for work.”

“And what did it say?”

“R.”

It was what she'd dreaded hearing. “You can't go home tonight. You have to stay here.”

“Jane, I can't let this … whatever it is … chase me out of my house.”

“No, but … just for me. To be on the safe side? Can't you stay here one night? I've got a security system. Sometimes I forget to use it, but I'll make sure it's on tonight. You know I have a comfortable bed upstairs for you because you've slept in it.”

“Pour me another and I'll think about it.”

“If I pour you another, you're definitely staying.”

He held out his glass. “Did I ever mention that you're a lot like your mother? You not only look like her, but you have the same facility for persuasion.” Once he'd settled back into his chair, he said, “Kit, Tommy, Beverly, and Archibald. One of them is our killer.”

“I think we have to add someone else to the list. A man you don't know. Red Clemens.”

“Who is he? And why would you include him?”

“He's worked as a janitor at the theater since he was a teenager. He had a crush on Kit when he was young, and I think it's possible he still does. He's a celebrity freak—likes to have pictures of himself taken with famous people. He's the one who knew about the hidden rooms in the theater. He learned about them because he saw Kit disappear from her dressing room back in the late seventies. He'd been watching her through a keyhole. I actually kind of like the guy, but I don't think we can rule him out. He makes a point of knowing everything that goes on around his place of employment. It's his universe. His own personal daytime drama.”

“Okay. You make a good case. Clemens should be on the list.”

For the first time since talking to Woodson, Jane felt herself relax. Her father was safe, at least for the moment. “I suppose it's possible for a woman to drag a dead body behind a wall, or lift one into a trunk, but that woman would have to be strong.”

“With adrenaline comes strength,” said her father. “And we all know a woman can use a gun as easily as a man.”

“But in this specific case, Kit is a small woman. I just don't think she could have managed it.”

“I'd be happy to cross her off the list,” said her dad. “On the other hand, she could have hired someone to do it for her—or asked a loyal member of her extended family. Based on what we know, it's difficult to eliminate or accuse any of them. We need the same thing DePetro does. A key piece of evidence. A smoking gun.”

If they couldn't catch a break, Jane's father might be the next victim. He might want to put a less dramatic spin on it, but she couldn't.

“You know, Janey, this feels good, just sitting here with you, relaxing by the fire.” He wiggled his toes. “Even if we are talking about a murder investigation, it's … nice.”

“Are you really doing okay?” she asked. “I'm sure you miss Elizabeth.”

He smiled. “Peter was sure I was going to dissolve into a puddle when she left. Honestly, Jane. I don't know how to account for it, but it was like somebody reached up and turned off a switch inside me. One minute I thought I was in love, and the next … everything looked different. Felt different. I've never had that happen before. When your mother died, I grieved for years. Hell, I'm still grieving. When Marilyn and I broke up, it was terribly hard. I didn't talk about it much, especially with you and Peter. I don't want to make my problems your problems. But with Elizabeth, it was different. Maybe I'm growing shallow in my old age. Has anything like that ever happened to you?”

“I'm not sure,” said Jane.

“I looked at Elizabeth one minute and I thought she was beautiful. The next, I didn't even find her attractive.” He shrugged. “I'm too old and life's too short to overanalyze it. So, to answer your question, I'm fine. A little lonely around the house at night, but that's nothing new. Actually, during the last couple of months Elizabeth and I were together, I'd never felt lonelier than when I was with her. The human heart,” he said, shaking his head as he held his drink up to the light of the fire. “As the Bible says, ‘Who can know it.'”

*   *   *

Jane helped her dad get settled upstairs, putting out some clean towels in the bathroom and making sure the bed linens in the spare bedroom were fresh. She opened the door on a closet full of Peter's old clothes. Her brother had stayed with her once for several months. It had been many years ago, when he and Sigrid had separated for a time. He'd never entirely moved out. She kept telling him that he had clothes at her place, but he never seemed to come by to pack them up, and then, after washing everything and storing them away, she'd forgotten about them.

Her dad and Peter were approximately the same size. Not only was Jane able to produce pajamas and a bathrobe, but there were socks and even clean underwear in a drawer. Tomorrow, he would have his pick of several sweaters, a couple of oxford cloth shirts that Jane had ironed, even half a dozen ties. Pants would be a problem, unless her father was willing to wear jeans.

They said their good nights just after eleven. Jane drifted back downstairs to the living room, where the dogs were still sleeping, and after tossing a couple more logs on the grate, fell asleep herself in front of the fire.

A little after two
A.M.
the sound of a text scissored into her sleep. Opening her eyes, she saw that the fire had gone out. Fumbling to dig her cell phone out of her pocket, she flipped it open and saw that it was from Cordelia.

I'm outside. Open up.

Jane ran a hand through her long, tangled hair as she stumbled into the foyer. She turned off the security system and pulled the door back.

Cordelia barreled inside. “What weather.” She flung off her cape and tried to fluff the sleet out of her hair. “I saw your dad's car outside, so I decided not to ring the doorbell.”

“Good call,” said Jane. For Cordelia, two
A.M.
was the middle of the day. “What's going on?” She switched on a couple of lamps in the living room.

“I know who murdered Jordan and stuffed those bodies in my theater.”

“You do?”

“It's so simple. I don't know why I didn't see it the moment you and Woodson mentioned those notes. It's
I, Claudius
. Pure Robert Graves.” She spotted the popcorn bowl on the table. Grabbing it and hugging it to her stomach, she sat down on the rocking chair. “It's Germanicus. You remember him? The John F. Kennedy of ancient Rome?”

“I don't think we ever met,” said Jane, crawling back under her quilt.

“And Caligula. He was the real culprit. Well, I mean, it's probably not literally true, but it's from Graves's book—and the BBC TV show. You remember it? I rewatched part of it tonight. Didn't you just love Derek Jacobi? What instincts that man has. I'd love to direct him. But back to the notes.”

“The notes?”

“Yes. That's what I've been talking about. Haven't you been listening?”

“I thought I was.”

“It's those notes,” said Cordelia, popping some popcorn kernels into her mouth. “Who would know about those notes? They were supposed to frighten Germanicus. Apparently, he was deeply superstitious. Okay, so maybe it wasn't Caligula. It could have been his mother, or even Tiberius. But somebody poisoned him. And before they did, they tried to scare him to death. In the room where he died, they found the remains of human babies, tablets with curses on them, anything and everything they thought could scare the wits out of him. And, again, the notes.”

“What about the notes?”

“Just like the ones that were sent to Jordan. To Ray. To Stanislaw Melcer.”

“How does that tell you who the murderer is?”

“It's
Roman
history,” said Cordelia. “Who do we know who's a Roman scholar?”

“Archibald?”

“Of course, Archibald. Bingo. Strike. Score.” She pumped her fist in the air. “We have our man.”

“I'm not sure that's proof.”

“You don't know him the way I do. He's arrogant. Thinks he's smarter than everyone else. If it was his work, he'd want to sign it. That crow? He knew the image of a crow would rattle Jordan. Those notes were Archibald's signature. Who else would have that piece of information at his fingertips? You'd have to be some kind of wacko Roman historical nut job to know about it.”

“Otherwise known as a one-time professor of Roman history.”

“Exactly. He was playing with his victims. Honestly, I might like the guy, he may bring fabulous wine to my parties and love to gossip, but this would totally be his kind of MO.”

“This theory of yours would never hold up in court.”

“Maybe not. But with so little to go on, and so many potential suspects, we're looking for
probability.
The notes point to someone—and probability says it's Archibald.”

“What else? What was his motivation?”

“He loves Kit. Almost worships her. Initially, he probably wanted to collect her. He has always been drawn to ‘the fascinating among us,' as he says. Somewhere along the line, his feelings deepened.”

“You think he's
in
love with her?”

Cordelia turned up her nose. “Can't quite imagine that pairing. He's not exactly Ryan Gosling.”

“Hope springs eternal. Think about it. Maybe everything he's done was to protect her. In the process, why not knock off a few rivals? Chapman. Melcer.”

“Your father.”

Feeling suddenly cold, Jane pulled the quilt up to her nose. “We have to find concrete proof, otherwise it means nothing.”

“We have to get him to admit what he did.”

“The thing is, he already did. He went to DePetro and confessed to Jordan's murder.”

“In an effort to protect Kit. Everything he's done, in his own twisted way, was because he loves her. That confession should have scored him some points.”

Jane considered it. Sitting up, she said, “Dad told me that, initially, Archibald only admitted to Jordan's murder. When DePetro mentioned the bodies found at the theater and connected them, he admitted to those, too. But it was a lame confession. DePetro never believed him for a minute because he screwed up the firearm details.”